Too Wise To Peaceably Woo
by the-mighty-pen325
Summary: Most marriages in Gondor are matters of convenience, especially among the nobility. But Dol Amroth is a different sort of place, with a different sort of royal family. Sometimes, Lothiriel is not convinced this is a good thing. (or, how in Middle Earth the too southern, too dark, too outspoken daughter of Imrahil ended up married to Éomer, son of Éomund)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Greetings and salutations, dear readers! It's been a hot minute since I've written anything for this fandom, and it should be noted that this story is in no way related to **Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours** ; I've grown a lot as writer since then, and this Lothiriel and Eomer are very different from their earlier counterparts.

That being said, I hope you enjoy this new story as much as the last one!

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 _Most marriages amongst the Gondorian nobility were ones of convenience. A spouse was another way to gain power, to gain money, or even, in some cases, a way to gain fame._

 _Even marriages that ripened into love did not often start out that way; many couples were lucky to have met once or twice before their wedding day, let alone know each other well enough to form any sort of deep attachment._

 _It was tradition, the elders said._

 _It was responsible, mothers insisted._

 _It was right, fathers declared._

 _It was why the House of Stewards had outlived the line of Kings. Gondor's last king had married for love, only for it to bring about his ruin. The Stewards, on the other hand, had married women of their fathers' choosing, and thus avoided such a downfall._

 _The Princes of Dol Amroth, however, were something of an exception to the rule. The line had never been broken, running down from the very first prince, Adahil, all the way to the current prince, Imrahil. The ruling house of Dol Amroth was populated by tall, dark-haired men, just to the core and fair to look upon. And they had all married for love._

 _Though, they had become less fair of late; Prince Imrahil had married Lady Dejah, from Pelargir, and their sons, while as tall and just as their forebearers, were said to resemble their mother's line in both complexion and temperament. Lady Dejah was Gondorian, of that there could be no doubt, but her home city was as close to the borders of Harad as Osgiliath was to Minas Tirith. The people there were said to be noble of bearing, but quick-tempered, darker-skinned._

 _"More Harad than of Gondor," people whispered, but the Lady Dejah was as beloved by the people as her husband, so it was not a thought often voiced-_

"What nonsense are you filling his head with now?"

Lothiriel startles, almost sending her nephew tumbling out of her lap. "Are you alright, Alphros?" She asks, "I'm so sorry, _melamin_ , your horrid father frightened me-"

"S'alright, Aunt Thiri," the little boy promises, "you caught me!"

Still feeling vaguely guilty, Lothiriel kisses the top of his cheek, keeping her arms looped around him. "Honestly, Elphir, have you no manners?"

Her eldest brother snorts. "Amusing, coming from the girl who dumped a bucket of water on Uncle Denethor's latest messenger-"

"He called Naneth a barbarian!" Lothiriel protests. "And my dear sister-your wife!-little more than an exotic trinket-"

"Which I would have informed Uncle of, had the story of you nearly drowning his man not reached him first," Elphir finishes, lifting his son out of her lap. "Your aunt's pride will go before her fall, my son."

"Can't we just catch her?" Alphros asks, brow innocently furrowed.

Both Lothiriel and Elphir laugh at that, much to the little boy's confusion. "I suppose there's a more pressing reason for you interrupting my story than teasing me about the messenger."

Elphir's look of mirth morphs into something else. "Uncle is requesting that Naneth come to Minas Tirith."

Lothiriel closes her eyes, and counts to ten slowly, in both Sindarin and Westron. Denethor, son of Ecthalion, and current Steward of Gondor had always been more than a little dismissive of his sister-in-law's position as princess of Dol Amroth, but to demand her mother's presence in the midst of such dark times-

"That is a horribly inappropriate request," Lothiriel finally says. "Surely he knows this?"

"Knows and likely does not care," Elphir agrees. "But we cannot refuse him; Ada is still the prince, _muinthel_ , and I am merely holding the city in his absence."

"It is dangerous!" Lothiriel argues. "In Faramir's last letter, he wrote that Orcs were moving on the eastern shore of the river. If Osgiliath is retaken, there will be no barrier between it and Minas Tirith."

"So Naneth will not arrive at the White City by boat," Elphir says, reaching to grasp her hand. "I am uneasy about this as you are, Thiri, but I cannot refuse an order from the Steward. Not with Ada and our brothers in the field."

Lothiriel knows he's right, as Elphir is about so many things.

But that does not make it easier to stomach; Uncle Denethor is cold on the best of days, and with Boromir gone from the city, it is unlikely that he was having many of those of late. Ada has always managed his mercurial moods best, and Erchirion after that, but Naneth is from Pelargir. People are...different there. Less distant, more open in their affections and passions and...well, nearly everything, from what Lothiriel can tell from knowing her mother's brothers. Though that was not hard to be, considering the strict behavioral code in Minas Tirith's court.

"We cannot send her there alone, Elphir," she says. "Ada would not like it. _I_ do not like it; there are still those who call her the _Harradrim_ -"

Elphir shoots her a sharp look, nodding down at the curious four year old in his arms. Lothiriel winces; Alphros is innocent enough to be unaware of the stigma that her mother's skin-and Lothiriel's own, and his mother's, and likely his as well, her sweet nephew-brought her in the grand court.

"What does that mean?" Alphros asks curiously. "The _Harra_ -"

"It's a naughty word," Elphir says sternly. "One neither I nor Mama would like you to repeat, and certainly not one your aunt should say in front of you."

"Oh," Alphros's dark eyes are wide in his cherubic face, "I'm sorry."

Lothiriel frowns at her brother before kissing Alphros's cheek in apology. "Nonsense, Alphros. It was my fault for saying it."

Elphir nods and Lothiriel represses the urge to roll her eyes; she loves her eldest brother, truly, but it is hard to relate to him, ever serious and responsible, in the way she does with her other, younger brothers. Amrothos, always ready with a laugh or a witty quip; he would have distracted Alphros instead of scolding him and tickled him until he forgot the word in the first place. Erchirion would have explained what the term meant in a way their nephew could understand, gentle and soft-spoken as always, and suddenly Lothiriel is overcome with a wave of longing for her brothers so strong that it almost weakens her knees.

"Let's take you to your mother, my son," Elphir's voice breaks into her thoughts. "I fear Aunt Thiri will teach you more naughty words."

"Your father and Uncle Amrothos taught me all of the ones I know," she assures her nephew, who giggles at her comically contrite expression, "it is only fair if I return the favor."

Alycia is reading in the garden, only raising her eyes to smile at her approaching family when Alphros calls out to her. Her dark skin gleams in the sunlight, beautiful in a way that Lothiriel has secretly always envied. Aly would call her a liar if she said so; her sister-in-law is even more odd than Lothiriel's mother in the Gondorian court, for all that she is the daughter of a Merchant Prince from Umbar. The Midnight Princess, the people of Dol Amroth call her. They mean it with affection, the people of their city, but there are others who are less accepting of Dol Amroth's newest princess, and Lothiriel suspects Elphir and Alphros as well, by extension.

"Husband, sister," Alycia greets them, smiling warmly. "Has my son been misbehaving?"

"Never," Lothiriel assures her, even as Elphir nods. "The fault is mine, Aly."

"That I believe," her sister-in-law laughs. "The House of Dol Amroth is plagued by mischievousness, and you are no exception, my dear Thiri."

Alphros giggles, nestling his head into the crook of his mother's neck. Elphir smiles, his expression so fond that Lothiriel's heart aches; much as she loathes her brother's more righteous rants, she would give her left arm to see him always as happy as he is now.

"Lothiriel and I need to discuss Lord Denethor's request," Elphir explains, leaning down ruffle his son's unruly hair. "Can you manage the little pirate on your own?"

Alycia gives her husband a fondly exasperated look. "Elphir, I am with child, not deathly ill. I can handle our son."

Elphir flushes slightly and Lothiriel muffles a smile behind her hand; her brother has always been a worry-wort, but never worse than when Aly is expecting. She turns to give them her privacy as he leans down for a kiss. Elphir appears only seconds later, pink-cheeked and offering her his arm silently. Offering a quick wave over her shoulder to Alycia and Alphros, she allows her brother to lead her away.

"I do not like the idea of sending Naneth alone either," Elphir murmurs once they have rounded the corner. "If Faramir or even Boromir were present, I would be more at ease, but-"

"They are both out of the city," Lothiriel agrees. Although her cousins are older than even Elphir, who is twelve years her senior, Denethor's sons have all of his nobility and none of his coldness. Boromir's booming laugh always welcomed them into Minas Tirith's grand halls, and Faramir's soft smiles and sincerity were always in abundance. Yes, if either of her cousins had been present, Lothiriel would not have hesitated at all to send Naneth to her uncle's court.

But they are not.

And the city had become even more dangerous than the court; Mordor loomed ever closer, Rohan was silent to the north, and enemies seemed to creep in from all sides. Naneth is strong, stronger than perhaps anyone in their family, but Lothiriel cannot bear the idea of sending her to Minas Tirith all alone.

Swallowing her own fear, she says: "Elphir, send me."

* * *

"Minas Tirith is not as I remember it," Lothiriel murmurs as they follow their escort towards the Main Hall. "It is...colder, somehow."

"Not all cities can be Dol Amroth, Lothiriel," her mother replies, patting Lothiriel's hand where it rests in the loop of her elbow, "and Minas Tirith is Gondor's grandest jewel."

Grandest, perhaps, Lothiriel thinks, but the most imposing as well. It had never seemed so in the past, when Boromir had always welcomed them at the gates, laughing at her brothers as they scrambled over each other to greet him first, reaching down to scoop the youngest up on his broad shoulders. Faramir, though, always had eyes for Lothiriel, making sure she always felt as valued as her brothers.

She wishes either of dear cousins were here now. Uncle Denethor has never much understood how to interact with the women of the House of Dol Amroth.

Still, she forces a passably pleasant expression to her face as they are led inside, well-aware of Naneth's quiet amusement at her side.

"Ah, the jewels of Dol Amroth have finally arrived," comes the Steward's commanding voice.

Were he any other man, Lothiriel would take such words as a compliment. But she knows better-knows _him_ better-and is well aware of the true sentiments lurking behind the expression. He sees her and her mother as pretty trinkets; valuable enough, of course, but lacking any real substance.

"Lord Denethor," Naneth says, sweeping into a flawless curtsey that Lothiriel can only envy. "It is an honor to return to the White City."

"The Houses will be most blessed by your presence, Dejah," he says smoothly. He offers her his ring to kiss and Lothiriel nearly baulks; they are every bit as gently-born as he is, and she knows beyond a doubt that if Ada were here, there would be no need for him, nor any of her brothers, to show such subservience.

Naneth, though, is as wily as he is, and bows her head over his hand without kissing the ring. Respect, but not deference. Lothiriel wishes she could be more like her.

"And this cannot be little Lothiriel," Denethor says, turning cool grey eyes towards her.

 _His eyes are like pebbles at the bottom of a stream_ , Amrothos always used to whisper, _cold and blank_.

"Uncle," she greets politely, dipping her head.

"You must be twenty summers now," he says, as if she has not spoken, "tell me, child, are you still not betrothed?"

Naneth's hand grasps hers in warning. Lothiriel has always had something of a glass face, and she knows her outrage must be apparent there now; they are on the brink of war, with nearly every man and boy gone to protect Gondor, and he asks her of _marriage_?

"Lothiriel has yet to meet the man of her choice," her mother says smoothly. "And even if she had, she would not dare wed him without her father present."

Denethor sniffs dismissively. "I forget how you southerners conduct yourselves, allowing the children to choose their own spouses. Ah, well; perhaps one of my soldiers will catch your eye, eh, Lothiriel? A military-minded man: strong, courageous...not too different from my Boromir, mayhaps?"

"Boromir is a very fine man, my lord," Lothiriel says, unable to stop herself despite the warning look her mother gives her, "but I have known enough of war. I think I should like a scholar. Someone gentle. Kind, even."

 _Like Faramir_ goes unspoken, but Denethor's eyes narrow nonetheless.

"The folly of youth," he snaps. "Bergil will show you to the Houses and then to your rooms." Lothiriel nearly stumbles at the abrupt change in subject. "I trust you will find everything satisfactory. Good day, my ladies."

Naneth blinks as he storms away. "We must be careful here, Lothiriel. It will not do to have Lord Denethor as an enemy."

"We are here at his request, assisting his healers because he has not had the foresight to have more people trained," Lothiriel grumbles.

"No, _I_ am here at his request," Naneth says, kissing her temple. "You are merely an annoying addition to his plan."

Lothiriel feigns offense before she puts together what her mother has said. "Plan?"

"It is no mistake that your uncle requested that I come to the city so close to the start of a war," Naneth murmurs, tucking Lothiriel's hand back into her elbow as they are led towards the Houses of Healing. "If Mordor attacks now, your father will not hesitate to throw his support behind Minas Tirith's soldiers."

Lothiriel's mouth falls open. "By being here...we have guaranteed Lord Denethor the Swan Knights."

"You have always been too smart for your own good, little flower," Dejah says, pressing her palm to Lothiriel's cheek. "With the tongue to match. Let us hope you can keep both your brain and mouth in check."

It is only then that Lothiriel realizes the true weight of the choice she has made in coming to the White City.

* * *

Word of Boromir's death comes on a Tuesday.

The sun is high in the sky and if Lothiriel faces to the south, she can almost forget that the cloud of Mordor is at her back, that her family is scattered to the wind, that the sea is not close enough to touch.

Naneth has been welcomed by her fellow healers with great joy; tales of Lady Dejah's formidable skills are known even here, in the heart of Gondor, and they are kinder to her than any noble has ever been. They welcome Lothiriel too, for a pair of young hands and a quick mind is always welcome among those tasked with the healing of others.

The day seems like any other since they have been in the city, but for one thing: a squadron of horses has apparently arrived at the Great Gate, carrying something of great importance.

"Perhaps it is a letter from Ada," Lothiriel muses, folding fresh bandages absentmindedly.

"Not even his letters would be given an honor guard," Naneth says, frowning. "I fear this is news of an unhappy kind."

It is.

They have returned to their rooms for their midday meal when a great wail suddenly comes from the hall. Alarmed, Naneth plucks Lothiriel by the hand, and together they make their way to the source of the sound.

Lord Denethor is slumped, pale and weeping, across the great black chair of the Stewards. Knights of the city kneel before him, save one, who stands, shaking.

"The boat was discovered not two days past," and Lothiriel twitches under her mother's steadying hand, for she would know that voice anywhere, anywhere in the world, "on the banks of the Anduin. Scouts discovered the remnants of some great battle, but no sign of any other-"

"My son," comes Denethor's voice, devoid of emotion in a way that sends a chill up her spine, "is _dead_ and you speak to me of your failures?"

Faramir falls silent.

Lothiriel's breath flies out of her in a rush; she cannot imagine a world without Boromir in it. Brave Boromir, who'd never met an enemy who could best him, who never tired no matter how much she and her brothers had insisted on climbing on his shoulders, who was always ready with a booming laugh and warm smile. Boromir, who had always called her his little princess, for all that she was far from fair and graceful. If Boromir, Captain of Gondor, legend and hero to so many little boys in the city, has already been felled…

"Oh, Thiri," Naneth murmurs, brushing at the tears she hadn't realized she'd shed.

"Father," Faramir starts to say-

"Leave me," Denethor hisses. "All of you."

It is only then that Lothiriel sees Boromir's horn, split down the middle, in his father's lap.

The soldiers file away, loyally obeying their grieving lord's orders. Faramir hesitates, so Lothiriel does too; she will not leave him here, alone with Denethor's bristling, selfish grief.

"Father," Faramir says again, "he was my brother, too."

Denethor says nothing, his fingers tightening on the horn the only indication that he has heard his son's words.

Naneth unwinds her arm from around Lothirel's shoulders, stepping up to touch Faramir's elbow. "Come away, Faramir. Please."

"Aunt Dejah," he says, voice dazed, "I did not know you were in the city."

"I am," she answers, "and Lothiriel is here, too, and we would offer you comfort-"

Denethor snorts, eyes finally lifting from Boromir's horn. "Comfort? The only comfort he can take is that he was lucky to be born." His eyes grow distant again. "Boromir was born lucky."

Lothiriel can take no more of this; she steps to Faramir's other side, slipping her hand into his. "Come, Faramir. Let us go."

Her cousin-the only cousin left to her-cries in her arms that night, and Lothiriel feels as if her heart is breaking right along with his.

If he has lost his brother, what is to prevent her from losing hers? Losing Ada? Losing Faramir himself? How many more people will grieve for their sons, their fathers, their brothers, their husbands?

The war has scarcely touched her, and already Lothiriel feels as if it has already wrung her dry.

* * *

Faramir departs the next morning for Osgiliath, despite her protests.

"You need time to grieve," she says, frowning as he shrugs on his ranger's doublet. "Faramir, have you even stopped to _eat_?"

He smiles softly at her, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Little Lothiriel, ever my protector."

"Someone has to do it if you will not," she grumbles.

"I would not rob you of your favorite occupation for all the world," he says, finally sounding like himself again, not like the stone-faced creature he'd been in the early hours of the morning. "Even if you are rather too large to sit on my shoulders any longer."

Blushing, but happy that he feels well enough to tease, she pinches him. "I would try if I thought it would make you stay in Minas Tirith."

Faramir's smile falters. "I cannot abandon my post, Lothiriel. Not even...not even for Boromir."

She takes his hand at that; she cannot comprehend, not fully, what Boromir's loss means to him. Oh, it hurts her, deeply, to think of Boromir lying still and cold, to think of his rooms somewhere within the keep dark and empty from now on, to think that she will never hear his laughter again, or hear him make a ribald joke to startle Ada into laughter. But Boromir has been Faramir's protector and friend a thousand times over; he has been there every day of Faramir's life since the day of his birth, and she can only imagine how his absence now must feel.

"I know," Lothiriel says, "but I think he would want you to eat, at the very least."

Smiling just enough, he does.

* * *

The city is subdued in the wake of Boromir's death, subdued and frightened.

Naneth and the other healers try to keep the morale in the Houses up; their patients have worries enough as it is without the knowledge that the city's best and bravest soldier has died on a mysterious quest. Lothiriel feels restless and ill-at-ease. It feels as if there must be another stroke of _something_ , some large event ot propel them further into despair or to yank them back towards hope.

She's been tasked with sorting some of the healing herbs; Naneth has taught her about them since childhood, and the other healers appreciate her diligence and gentle touch with the more delicate plants, when a sudden cry rings out from the gate.

"Mithrandir! Mithrandir has returned!"

Lothiriel lurches to her feet, nearly spilling her carefully picked verbena. The Grey Wizard, here? Surely that is a sign of _something_ , though for good or ill she could not say.

"Naneth!" She calls, wincing as a few of the healers hush her, and some of the less wounded men's heads lift from their bed.

"She's in the east wing, my lady," one of the head healers-Mistress Ioreth, if Lothiriel was remembering correctly-offers with a wry smile. "But do try to keep your voice down, this is a place of rest."

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel nods. "Yes, Mistress Ioreth. My apologies."

The other woman pats her arm, gently, to show that she's been forgiven.

Her mother is indeed in the east wing, and looks up bemusedly as Lothiriel approaches, doing her best to remember that she is a princess, not a serving girl, and to run through the House's halls would be unseemly.

"Naneth," Lothiriel says, attempting to compose herself. "Mithrandir has come."

Her mother frowns slightly at that. "Gandalf, here? It will be good to see him again, certainly, but I cannot imagine he brings good news." The Grey Wizard _has_ brought news, along with something else; or rather _someone_ else.

Peregrin Took, of the Shire, is the first halfling Lothiriel has ever sen, and she has the most absurd urge to sweep him into a hug as he stands there, looking smaller than ever in Minas Tirith's great hall.

"Ah, Lady Dejah," Gandalf says, bowing over Naneth's outstretched hand. "I am pleased to see there are yet level heads in this city."

"Mithrandir," Naneth greets, "many a level head has been made less so by war."

"It helps even less when they were less than steady to begin with," Lothiriel mutters under her breath, earning an exasperated look from her mother and a snort from Gandalf.

"Are you Lord Denethor's wife, my lady?" Comes a voice from around Gandalf's elbow.

Both princesses turn their attention to the halfling, who blushes under their scrutiny.

"Pippin comes from a long line of hobbits who do not think before they speak," Gandalf says, fond exasperation in his tone.

"His question is a fair one," Lothiriel defends. The Shire is far from even the western-most reaches of Gondor; he would likely not have heard of Dol Amroth, let alone know that Denethor has been a widower these past thirty years. "But no, Master Took, we are not the Steward's direct kin. Merely a sister-in-law and a niece."

The hobbit nods, looking more at ease. "That makes sense, my lady. Surely Boromir would have mentioned if he had a mother and sister as lovely as you."

Naneth hides a smile behind her hand as Gandalf gives the hobbit's ankles a swift smack with his staff. But it's not the Took's compliment that has Lothiriel reeling; it's his casual mention of her cousin, only so recently lost.

"You knew Boromir?" Lothiriel asks.

Pippin blinks up at her before giving Gandalf a wary look. "Aye, my lady. He is-was-the bravest man I've ever known."

"He was," Lothiriel agrees. "Perhaps, you would tell me more of him, and your journey?"

"I should like that very much, my lady," Pippin says, brightening at last.

"If you enjoy hearing stories from fools-" Gandalf starts to say, but his smile is fond.

"I have been called foolish enough times to not mind another person who would be named so," Lothiriel answers, lips twitching as Naneth sighs and the wizard laughs. "Come, Pippin, I expect you'll be hungry, hm?"

"Always, my lady."

* * *

Pippin's friendship quickly becomes the one bright spot in an otherwise dark and frightening time.

Mordor looms ever closer, Faramir remains in Osgiliath as orcs continue to march along the shores, and there have been no letters from Ada or her brothers, Elphir included.

"I feel as if we are in some fickle lull," she tells Pippin one day, "as if we are lying in a still pond with no knowledge of the approaching storm."

"I think it's rather hard to miss, my lady," is the hobbit's quick response. She gives him a confused look and Pippin nods wryly at the ominous clouds.

That manages to startle a laugh out of her and he grins.

"I am sorry, Master Took; I've become melancholy of late."

"S'alright, I've always been quite good at fighting that particular monster," Pippin assures her. His smile fades, though, as he looks away towards the White Tree.

Lothiriel touches his hand, gently; he has seen such things, her small friend, and is so far removed from all that he knows and loves. Food, she's found, is always a ready remedy for moments when he goes quiet like this. She would dearly love to acquire some of the pipeweed he misses so much, but something with such a strong smell was not permitted in the Houses, and she is unsure of where else she would keep it.

Pippin squeezes her hand before forcibly brightening. Rising to his feet, he asks: "Where to today, my lady? If I'm to truly to be a guard of the Citadel, I must know every inch of my new city."

"Faramir would be a better guide for that, I'm afraid," she says, drawing her arm around his shoulders, "and Boromir even better than that."

"It's nice to see the city he came from," Pippin admits. "He always spoke so fondly of it. Of home."

"Minas Tirith has never known a finer son," Lothiriel says, tone wistful. "But I have always been partial to my own city, truth be told."

"Dol Amroth?" Pippin supplies quickly. "Is it as beautiful as here, my lady?"

"Oh, more," she answers. "Minas Tirith is grander, surely, but Dol Amroth is all grey stone, you see. Better to blend in against the coast, so pirates cannot spot us."

"I've never seen the sea," he says. "What's it like?"

And Lothiriel is able to forget her fears for a little while, talking about the ocean she loves so well.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Eomer appears in the next chapter, I promise! Just taking a bit of time to set our scene. Also, in case it isn't obvious, I'm attempting to rectify one of my least favorite things about Lord of the Rings: the lack of anyone who's not lily-white. To better showcase where I'm pulling the cultures from, I'll put it in terms of our world:

Northern Gondor: France

Southern Gondor (where Lothiriel's mother is from): Spain

Northern Harad: North Africa

Southern Harad: Central and South Africa

And yes, there will be elements of racism, classism, and sexism addressed in this story, because come on, we need a little diversity up in here.

Also, in case anyone is curious who I'm imagining for some of the principal cast (and yes, their ages may not match up perfectly):

Imrahil: Gabriel Byrne

Dejah (Imrahil's wife, unnamed in the books so I took liberties here): Gina Torres

Elphir: Oscar Isaac

Alycia (Elphir's wife, also unnamed in the books, thanks Tolkien): Lupita Nyong'o

Erchirion: Diego Luna

Amrothos: Anthony Ramos

Lothiriel: Gina Rodriguez


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Wow, y'all! Can't thank you guys enough for the kind reviews; it's so nice getting back into this fandom, and I'm really glad that you're all willing to see where I'm going with this thing. Seriously, your reviews so far have really made it worthwhile and I'm so excited to share this story with you! Without further ado, here's the second chapter and enter the hero-though he's a little less than heroic upon first glance ;)

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

After all the time spent waiting with dread, when the fighting begins it feels as if she can scarcely keep up. The days pass in a blur; Faramir returns from Osgiliath, mercifully alive but having lost the city. Denethor would not accept this. Osgiliath was Gondor's! Boromir would have secured the city, he was certain! Lothiriel was of half a mind to tell him that even Boromir could not have held the city against such a host-but her uncle was far past logic.

So Faramir and his remaining cavalry are sent back to reclaim the city they had lost.

Mithrandir cautions against it, Naneth points out the folly of such a mission, and Lothiriel begs, past the point of decorum, for Faramir not to throw his life away so rashly.

He merely taps her nose, a smile curling the corners of his mouth but not reaching his eyes. "If my death will buy the city-you, your mother, my father-more time, is it not worth it?"

"What kind of time?" She cries, her accursed temper getting the better of her. "A few hours? A day? A week? Your life is worth more than that, Faramir! You are more than a weapon to be used at will!"

He hushes her and pulls her into a hug, allowing her to tuck her head under his chin the way she has since she was a child. She wishes she could feel as comforted now as she had then, when the worst of her fears had been of shadows in the dark and monsters under the bed.

"It isn't fair," she mutters. "It isn't _right_."

"No," he agrees, "it isn't. But it is what I must do."

And he departs then, leaving her in tears and knowing, beyond any doubt, that Boromir was not the only son of Denethor worthy of the title of hero.

Pippin is with her, on the walls, when the cavalry rides towards Osgiliath. His presence is a comfort, but it is not the one she wants when the arrows begin to pick off the horses and their riders. She longs for her father, always so level-headed and kind. She wants Elphir, stoic and noble, who would have called Lord Denethor out on the sheer insanity of this plan. She wants Erchirion, with his quiet smiles and quick wit. Or Amrothos, with his never flagging mischief and loud laugh. It could have been any of them, riding to certain death beside their sweet cousin. It still _could_ be any of them, in the coming days. She wishes it was none of them; she wishes none of this-the War, Boromir's death, Naneth's summons to Minas Tirith-had happened.

 _If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride_ , she thinks.

It is the last clear thought she can recall.

The city descends into chaos; the calvary is lost, Faramir with them, and the hosts of Mordor have come. She has no time for tears for Faramir, for the wounded begin streaming into the Houses. Pippin vanishes, to fulfill his duty as guardian of the Citadel. Naneth's expression, serene in even the worst of conditions, sharpens, begins to despair.

"Where are the Rohirrim?" One of the healers asks, fear evident in his voice. "Why have they not come?"

"Why should they?" Lothiriel hisses back, trying to secure a bandage around a squire's-no more than four and ten, he is a _child_ -arm. "We did not go to their aid, what reason would they have to come to ours?"

But she is wrong. Perhaps the Rohirrim are braver than her people, perhaps they are kinder; because they come when the time is darkest, their horns heralding their arrival.

Time moves steadily on. The Houses are at their breaking point, packed to the gills with injured men, frightened children. She has not seen Naneth in hours; she is not sure she will ever see her mother again, much less the rest of her family.

In the wee hours of the morning, a surprise: a group of Citadel Guards, led by a white-faced Pippin, appear.

"We bear the Lord Faramir!" One of the men yells. "He is gravely injured and requires assistance!"

Lothiriel's heart leaps to her throat; Faramir, alive?

Mistress Ioreth appears, bustling forward and feeling for a pulse. "He lives, but only just. To the left-most chambers, and quickly!"

Lothiriel falters; she has her duties here, men that need her help, but- _Faramir_!

One of here patients-a Rohirric boy not much younger than herself-groans then, and she knows her cousin will be as safe as he can be under the care of the older, more experienced healers.

"What of Lord Denethor?" A healer asks. "Surely he should know that his son lives!"

"Lord Denethor has passed," Pippin says, voice carrying over the sudden hush of the Houses. "Faramir is your Steward, now."

Denethor, dead? The thought seems impossible; it had oft seemed that her uncle had been carved of stone, and to think of him gone...it does not hurt her, the way Boromir's death had, but it is a shock, if nothing else.

"My lady, your charges," someone murmurs. Lothiriel pushes all other thoughts besides being useful away.

The night is a long one, and the morning dawns without fanfare and seemingly without much light. And then suddenly, the clouds seem to recede. Sunlight pours down through the sudden opening, revealing a ghostly army and the wreckage of the Pelennor Fields.

"My lady?" One of her boys whispers, voice weak. "Is it over?"

That they may survive this has not occurred to Lothiriel in hours, not since Faramir fell.

"I am not sure," she answers, not wanting to give him false hope.

"By the Valar, let it be done," says another man-Bergil, if she's not mistaken. "The city cannot survive another attack."

As if on cue, the doors to the Houses slam open, causing a cacophony of shrieks and oaths.

And then another familiar voice disturbs the newly-roused Houses: "Healers, I have a charge for you. A lady, in need of grave assistance."

This time, Lothiriel cannot stop her feet. She stumbles forward, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Her father stands in the doorway, a lady as fair as the morning in his arms. Injured, clearly, with the way her arm is cradled to her chest, but Lothiriel has eyes only for him.

"Prince Imrahil!" One of the healers shouts. "Of course, we are happy to assist-"

" _Ada_?" Lothiriel croaks, feeling as if there is no air in her lungs at all.

Imrahil jerks, head turning towards her. "Lothiriel?"

"My Prince, the lady…" the same healer protests. Imrahil nods, carefully passing off the unknown lady-Rohirrim for certain, with hair that golden-and then turns back to his youngest child.

"Oh, daughter," he breathes out and then Lothiriel is in his arms, despite the blood on her dress and the dirt on his mail.

"Ada," she gasps, "how are you here? Where are-are Amrothos and Erchirion alright? Are you injured? Who was that lady? How-"

"Peace, little flower," he interrupts, smiling slightly despite the weariness in his expression. "And I believe it should be me asking _you_ why you are here...surely Lord Denethor would have sent all of the women and children from the city?"

"He tried, but Naneth would not be dissuaded," Lothiriel admits, "and I would not go without her-"

"My brave girl," he says again and Lothiriel presses her face against his chest, despite the dirtiness and coldness of his armor. Ada is alive! Safe!

"Your mother is here?" Imrahil asks after stroking her hair for a few moments.

"Yes, somewhere, I admit I lost track of her," Lothiriel says. "How is it that you are here, Ada? Truly?"

"We received word at the last moment from Theoden King, that they were marshalling a counter-attack to help Minas Tirith," he says. "And I could not abandon the city, for if Minas Tirith fell, Dol Amroth and the rest of Gondor would not have been far behind."

Lothiriel suspects Elphir had been writing letters after all, and Ada had not been so unaware of his wife and daughter's presence in Minas Tirith as he acts.

There is a soft gasp from behind her, and Lothiriel knows her mother has arrived. She unwinds herself from her father quickly; married these 35 years, there is still great love between her parents, and she would not stand between them for all the world.

"Dearheart," Ada says, reaching for his wife's hands, "what trouble have you gotten yourself into now?"

"Only a little more than you have, husband," Naneth answers, joy obvious on her face despite her weariness. "And I see you have found our wayward daughter as well. How fare our sons?"

"Amrothos is sporting a new scar that I fear will only increase his popularity with the ladies, and Erchirion has acquired a pair of bruised ribs. They are fine, Dejah, truly."

Her brothers are fine too? _Luck must run in equal measure as valor in their veins_ , she thinks. And Lothiriel wants to stand there, doing nothing more than drinking in the sight of her parents together, but a healer tugs at her elbow. It's one of the youngest of the bunch, Farniel, only so recently promoted to her status, and she looks exceedingly nervous.

"Please, my lady, we do not know which herbs may help your cousin and the White Lady," she says in a rush, "and Mistress Ioreth says you are the deftest with the plants-"

"And so I must come," Lothiriel interrupts, nodding. "Of course."

* * *

In the end, it is not her knowledge of herbs, nor Mistress Ioreth's knowledge of the body that saves the White Lady-Eowyn of Rohan, niece to the fallen king and sister to the new-nor Faramir, nor Pippin's badly injured friend, Meriadoc Brandybuck.

"The hands of the king are the hands of a healer," Ioreth had whispered when Elessar-or Aragorn, as Mithrandir calls him-sweeps into the room with regal authority. "And so shall the rightful king be known."

"He certainly looks the part of a king," Naneth whispers in quiet amusement, offering Lothiriel an unapologetic look when she gapes at her.

Faramir is the first to awaken, having been pierced by an Orc's arrow and not anything made of the Witch King's magic. The White Lady and Merry awaken not a day later, but it is her cousin that Lothiriel chooses to to tend to, curiosity and Pippin's insistence aside.

"You are to never do anything that foolish ever again," Lothiriel chides him, gently wiping his still pinked face with a cloth, "no matter who you think you are protecting."

Faramir smiles softly at that. "I have often wondered how one so small could be so fierce," he teases.

It is good to know that he feels well enough to tease, though Lothiriel cannot repress the frown at his mention of an old joke against her. Her parents were of an equal height, and her brothers not much shorter than their father, but it seemed that all of their Numenorean blood had gifted no such stature to her.

"The tallest man can be a great coward, and the smallest child can possess the heart of a lion," she retorts. ""And I will tell you again, as I have so many times, size is no guarantee of fierceness."

"As evidenced by the lady your father discovered on the battlefield," Faramir says. "Tell me, what news have you of the White Lady?"

Lothiriel squints at her cousin, suddenly suspicious; there is no masking the admiration in his voice, no matter the fact that he and the lady have exchanged as many words as she has fingers.

"I do not know much," she answers, slowly, "but I can find out, if it would please you."

As she suspected, a tell-tale blush rises in her cousin's cheeks. "If you would, Thiri."

Oh, the scoundrel! He knows very well-as do her brothers-that she can refuse them nothing when they are injured, much less when they use her childhood nickname.

She wanders down the slightly-cleared hallways of the Houses; any of the men well enough to fight again have left, as the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan plan to march on the Black Gate in two days time. Even Pippin and Merry seem bound and determined to go, yet another example of valor having little to do with size.

The White Lady of Rohan is awake when Lothiriel enters, but looks less than happy to see her. "Have you come to force me to eat again, Mistress Healer? Or to tell me again how foolish I am to have ridden into battle in the first place?"

Lothiriel nearly recoils in horror; healers have been saying such things to her? She, who slayed the Witch King of Angmar and avenged her dear kinsman?

"Certainly not, and I would box the ears of anyone I heard saying such a thing," Lothiriel answers promptly.

The other woman blinks at her. "You are not the usual healer."

"No, and I am afraid I am no healer at all, for all of the work I have done in the Houses," Lothiriel admits. "I am Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, and it was my father who found you on the Fields."

The White Lady's posture relaxes somewhat at that. "Prince Imrahil has a daughter?"

"Yes, and three much more troublesome sons," Lothiriel says, before frowning. "Well, one is more troublesome. Elphir and Erchirion are usually quite well-behaved."

"I thought most Gondorian nobles were well-behaved," the other woman says cautiously.

"My family has always been somewhat of an exception to the rule," Lothiriel says. "My brother Amrothos and I the most so."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment before the White Lady offers her a tentative smile. "I apologize for my rudeness. I am accustomed for people assuming things about me because of...what I did on the Fields, and I do not care for it."

"To be judged by one act alone and not the sum of one's worth is incredibly frustrating," Lothiriel agrees, "I would be annoyed, too."

"Yes, exactly," the other woman murmurs, sounding perplexed. "You have some experience with this?"

Lothiriel considers whether she should be so frank with this woman who she scarcely knows. But the Rohirrim have saved the city, her family, her people...honesty is only a small fraction of what she owes them. "I once dumped a bucket of water on a messenger of my uncle's for insulting my mother and sister-in-law," she admits, "and I suspect this one action will make it infinitely harder for me to find a husband, no matter all of the other times I have been on perfect, princessly behavior."

"Hah!" The White Lady laughs. "In Rohan, you would have the opposite problem. Many a man would be lining up to marry someone who defends her family so well."

Lothiriel smiles. "Perhaps you shall have to tell my father as much. I do not think he would believe me on my own, but with the White Lady's word-"

"Please, call me Eowyn," the other woman interjects. "I find I have little desire now to become a myth."

Lothiriel frowns, just slightly. "I think it's rather late for that, my lady."

Eowyn's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

Lothiriel opens her mouth to explain when the door suddenly slams open, missing her by inches. An involuntary squeak is drawn from her mouth. Her brothers are fairly tall, her cousins taller still, but this man would dwarf them all-and not just in height. His shoulders seem to fill the doorway and the look he gives her could curdle milk.

His blonde hair marks him as one of the Rohirrim, but Lothiriel has never met him and is unsure what she could have done to draw such ire.

"Can I help you, my lo-"

"You can help me by dismissing yourself," comes the short response. "My sister has no need of hair-brained healers pestering her at all hours of the day."

Lothiriel is certain she can feel her eyebrows hitting her hairline. So _this_ was Rohan's new king? Lothiriel knows enough from her own heritage that being assumed to be barbaric and uncivilized by merit of culture alone is wrong, but for him, she may have to make an exception.

Still, he _is_ a king, and she likes Eowyn well enough already to try to maintain a civil tongue. "I am no healer, my lord," she says, keeping her tone even. "And I had no intention of pestering Lady Eowyn-"

"Then you have come to berate her then?" He interrupts, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "To mock her for not being as you and your Gondorian kin are; little more than trinkets?"

"Eomer-" Eowyn tries to interject, frowning, but Lothiriel can feel the tendrils of her control over her temper slipping away entirely.

" _Trinkets_?" She repeats in an incredulous tone. "It was _Gondorian women_ who have spent the past two days tending to the wounded, both our men and yours. It was _Gondorian women_ who brought the hobbit under your charge back from the brink of death. Warriors we may not be, my lord, but neither are we mere ornaments."

He scoffs. "Ornament or not, you have no right to impose upon my sister-"

"I was sent by my cousin, the _Steward_ ," Lothiriel spits, drawing herself up to her admittedly unimpressive height, "to check on the lady's well-being. If that is an imposition, then we truly have differing standards here than in the Mark."

Eowyn interrupts before her brother can answer. "Lord Faramir sent you?"

Lothiriel takes a deep breath, pulling her gaze away from the irritating king before offering Eowyn a much warmer smile. "Yes, my lady. He wanted to be sure that you were feeling better."

"I am," Eowyn answers, a small smile playing on her face. "Tell him I appreciate his concern."

 _She's as smitten as he is_ , Lothiriel thinks. _Good. Faramir-and Eowyn-deserve happiness._

Lothiriel nods, dipping into a deep curtsy. "I shall be on my way now, my lady, as my presence is unwanted-"

"Not by me!" Eowyn interrupts, shooting her brother a look. "I would speak to my brother in private, but then perhaps you would return for the noon meal, my lady? I..it has been some time since I have had female companionship."

"I would be delighted," Lothiriel answers; and truly, she is. She cannot fault Eowyn for having such a rude brother, just as others have not faulted her for her own rude siblings in the past. "Until then, my lady, my lord."

Meeting his fierce stare with one of her own, Lothiriel curtsies again before exiting the room.

"Who _was_ that woman?" She hears the king ask.

"Lord Imrahil's daughter," Eowyn answers, amusement plain in her voice. "The princess of Dol Amroth."

The king's groan of horror makes Lothiriel smirk.

* * *

She and Eowyn-and both women agree to quickly drop the formality of their titles-become fast friends. Both have always felt more than a little out of their depth in the roles they have been born into: Eowyn has always wanted to be a warrior, not a lady, and Lothiriel has always wanted to be useful, more than the trappings of princess and noblewoman allow.

Even so, it is not Lothiriel's presence that Eowyn wants when the combined forces of both Gondor and Rohan begin their march to the Black Gate.

It is Faramir she turns to for comfort, and Lothiriel can only smile and watch from behind a pillar as they embrace upon the wall in the view of the entire city. She is not sure when this love-for it is that, surely, Lothiriel knows it in her very bones-sprung up between them, but it has, and it has made one of the people she loves most in this world happy, and made her new friend smile again so that it reaches her eyes. In times like these, that is something to be grateful for.

"So Faramir has found a worthy lady," Naneth says, startling her. "I did not think the task possible."

"Eowyn is the best choice I could have imagined for him," Lothiriel assures her mother. The entire royal family of Dol Amroth is protective of Faramir, and has been for most of his life. As the son of Imrahil's beloved sister, and the clear second-favorite of his stony father, it would have been hard not to be, even if Faramir had been any less kind and brave.

"You quite like the Lady of Rohan, do you not, my Thiri?"

"I do, though I would guess that Faramir's affection far surpasses mine," Lothiriel laughs, as her cousin and friend's embrace continues before them.

Naneth smiles, tucking Lothiriel's hand into the crook of her elbow. "I pray that you find the same kind of happiness, little flower."

Lothiriel frowns. "Naneth, the War is not yet won. It is hardly the time for...that, surely."

Naneth merely shrugs. "Lothiriel, if I know anything about this life, it's that things rarely appear when and where we expect them to."

"Could that argument also be used for disease? A swarm of locusts?" Lothiriel answers.

Her mother smiles. "There's that wit of yours, my dear. May you never lose it."

The sky lightens a few days later. It feels like a weight has been lifted from everyone and everything; Lothiriel cannot remember a time that the air has felt so light, so...free.

Eowyn says much the same, for all that her home is removed from Mordor and its familiar dark clouds. She's been allowed to leave the Houses, per Mistress Ioreth's direction, and Naneth had been quick to offer her a place in their rooms.

Lothiriel suspects her mother's motives may not have been purely out of kindness; everyone had seen Faramir and Eowyn on the walls, after all, and Gondorian society was certainly not known for its forgiveness regarding a woman's reputation. Naneth understands better than most what it means to be regarded as an outsider. For all of her high-birth and intelligence, many of Minas Tirith's court still refer to her as the _Harradrim_ , for all the fact that she has as little Harad blood in her veins as they do.

Lothiriel had tried to explain as much to Eowyn, but she feels inadequate to the task.

"What should it matter what part of Gondor your mother is from?" Eowyn asks, frowning. "My father was from Aldburg, and my mother from Edoras, and no one opposed the match once they knew his character."

Lothiriel sighs, running a brush through her hair. "Eowyn, surely you have noticed that my mother and I do not look as other noblewomen in Minas Tirith do, and my brothers share our complexion. Only Elphir takes after Ada more, and he is still too...southern for many of the court's taste. It helps very little that his wife is the daughter of a merchant prince of Umbar and is darker than any of us."

"...they judge you on your skin?" Eowyn asks, the idea clearly dawning on her. "Bema above, what petty people!"

Lothiriel cannot help but laugh. "In part, but it is more than that. Pelargir is on the border of Harad, as close to the country as Osgiliath is to Minas Tirith. Most Gondorians from that region look as we do, but Minas Tirith is leagues away and so we are seen as...other."

Eowyn scowls at that. "And to think they call us the barbarians."

"You do not have a similar discrimination in your country?" Lothiriel asks, brow furrowed. She has seen many a Rohirric soldier in the past few days, and they have all been blonde or red-haired to a man, with the fair skin to match. No matter how much their years as farmers and warriors and horsemen have darkened their skin, it will never be as Naneth's is, nor like hers or Alycia's or any of her brothers. She is willing to believe that perhaps the more informal nature of Rohirric culture lends itself to less rigid social mores, but a lack of prejudice? In all of her reading, she has yet to find a culture free of it.

The other woman thinks for a moment before grimacing. "I suppose the Dunlendings would be similar, but they are little more than savages-"

"-which is exactly what many nobles would say about the Harad," Lothiriel interjects. "And since my mother's family hails from the nearest Gondorian city to Harad…"

A look of horror passes over Eowyn's face. "But your mother is one of the most proper ladies I've ever known!"

"She has had to be," Lothiriel admits. "My brothers get away with more, as men do, and because they are all charming and handsome to a fault, possible Harad blood or not."

Eowyn seems to sense what she's not saying. "And you?"

Lothiriel flashes her a helpless smile. "My unladylike temper had to come from somewhere, did it not? After all, a true Gondorian noble maid would never allow her mouth to run away with her, or to insult the king of Rohan to his face."

"She should if he deserved it, which he did," Eowyn retorts. "If anyone has barbaric manners, it's the ill-tempered oaf I call brother."

But the fondness is plain in Eowyn's voice, just as it is in Lothiriel's when she talks about her own brothers. They can only stand to make jokes like this now that a rider has been received, bearing a message for the Steward; Sauron has been defeated, and the armies of Men are marching home.

"Please, let us speak of other things," Lothiriel murmurs, setting her brush down on the table. Smiling slightly, she turns her head in Eowyn's direction. "Like what you plan on telling said ill-tempered brother about my cousin when he returns."

Eowyn swats her, a blush on her fair cheeks, and the matter of Harad and the Dunlendings is forgotten, for a time.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Talk about a bad first impression! Fret not, my lovelies, our duo will get more interaction in the next chapter, with hopefully better results.

(Also, Faramir is one of my favorite characters in the entire series, can't you tell?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Guys, thanks so much for you kind reviews! It makes sharing this story with you an absolute delight :)

I do want to address one review, that brought up a very valid point, though. You'll notice in the previous chapter, and in a number of chapters going forward, that I've made slight tweaks to the canon timeline. This is intentional, and I promise it has plot-related importance if it diverges from canon. I've read the books more times than is healthy, and have the movies (the extended editions, Mama didn't raise no fool) pretty much memorized.

Anyways, onward! Here be dinner parties, annoying siblings, and revised first impressions ;)

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

The dawn grows brighter each morning, but it seems brightest on the morn that the armies finally move into view across the Pelennor Fields. Everyone gathers in the main courtyard in a great crush, but there is too much joy for anyone to complain about the press of people. Lothiriel finds herself wedged between her mother and Eowyn, with Faramir standing sentinel on her other side.

The great gates swing open, revealing the victors.

King Elessar leads the way, with Eomer King to his left, Mithrandir to his right. There is the Elven prince of the Woodland Realm not too far behind, with a Dwarf riding with him; part of the Fellowship that Pippin had told her so much about.

Grand as they all are, it is not these great heroes that she longs to see.

Naneth gives a small cry and Lothiriel follows her gaze: Ada is just behind the first line, flanked by Amrothos, Erchirion, and the rest of the Swan Knights. It has been months since she's seen her brothers, and despite the grime on their armor and the dirt on their faces, she's never been happier to see them.

Eowyn has already broken into a sprint towards her own brother, who swings down to meet her with a warm expression. If the White Lady, slayer of the Witch-King of Agmar, can run to her brother, why should Lothiriel not run to hers?

So, she does, despite Naneth's sigh and Faramir's scarcely muffled chuckle.

Erchirion spots her first and his face breaks into a great grin. He elbows Amrothos, who all but shoots up in the saddle, beaming. She reaches them at the same moment they step down from their horses and then she has an arm around both of their necks, her face pressed uncomfortably against one of each's shoulders, and Lothiriel feels as though her heart will burst with joy.

"Who is this beautiful lady, Erchirion?" Amrothos asks, though she can hear the tears there, and feels his hand, gentle at the back of her head. "Surely it is not our dear Thiri, grown up at last?"

"You must have rattled something loose with that fall of yours, brother," Erchirion answers, sounding as close to tears as Lothiriel feels, "for this can be none other than our own Lothiriel."

"You are both horrible teases," she sniffles, leaning back to smile at both of them. Unable to stop herself, she lays a hand on one of each of her brother's cheeks and winces at the stubble she finds there. "Honestly, you two, did they have no razors in a soldier's camp?"

"We return after a great victory and our sweet sister asks of our shaving habits!" Amrothos cries. "I think you have not missed us at all, Lothiriel."

"I have missed you more than I can possibly express," Lothiriel says, suddenly serious. "Did...did you miss me?"

Amrothos looks stricken but Erchirion-intuitive, kind Erchirion-sweeps her into another hug, tucking her head under his chin. "Of course we did, Thiri. Though I cannot say we wished you with us, after all we have seen."

"I am certainly glad you were safe in Dol Amroth, and then in the Houses," Ada says, interrupting their reunion with a fond smile. "But I do not think Lothiriel is the only princess of Dol Amroth who has missed you, my sons."

Amrothos hurries off in the direction Lothiriel came from, towards their mother, but Erchirion keeps Lothiriel's hand tucked into the crook of his elbow before they follow their brother. Ada falls into step beside them. Lothiriel steps back to allow Naneth her own moment to greet her sons; she smiles as their mother fusses over them, tutting over Erchirion's unruly beard and the new scar on Amrothos's cheek.

Someone clears their throat to her left and Lothiriel turns, expecting Faramir or mayhaps Pippin, who she'd spotted riding with Gandalf. Instead it is the king of Rohan, looking somewhat uncomfortable. It suits him much less than his towering anger the first time she'd met him, and for a moment, Lothiriel is at a loss for words.

They stare at each other, and with a jolt she realizes that his eyes are not the light green of his sister's, but rather a brown as dark as her own. _They're much nicer looking when not fixing me with a frightening glare_ , Lothiriel thinks, and wonders what they would look like in a smile, instead.

Shaking the thought from her head, she offers him a tentative smile. "Can I help you, my lord?"

"I owe you an apology, my lady," he says, startling her again. "I should not have spoken to a princess so."

She starts to nod-her anger at him has dulled to a low boil, for after all her brothers would have been equally protective if they'd encountered someone they believed intended their sister insult-and then she blinks. Processes.

"Do you mean to say," Lothiriel says slowly, narrowing her eyes at him as her chin juts up of its own accord, "that it would have been acceptable to speak to me in such a manner if I _had_ been just a healer, and not a princess?"

His face twitches, whether in surprise or guilt she cannot say. "That is not what I meant at all-"

"I would rather hope not, my lord, as either way I would have been owed an apology-"

"Which I am trying to give you-"

"A rather half-hearted one, if I may say so-"

"You-"

"Ah, Eomer," comes Ada's voice, rich with amusement. "I see you've met my youngest."

Lothiriel blushes; she'd forgotten all about her family, standing not three paces away. Amrothos looks hugely amused, Naneth exasperated, and Erchirion's eyebrow is arched in a way that bodes ill for a discussion later.

"We've met before, Imrahil," Eomer explains and she starts at the lack of title. By the Valar, surely her father hadn't _befriended_ him during the march to Mordor?

"In the Houses, if I'm remembering correctly," Amrothos chimes in, looking worryingly smug. "Eomer mistook our Thiri for a healer, badgering poor Lady Eowyn."

"That hardly sounds like something she would do," Erchirion interjects. Lothiriel silently blesses her stable, level-headed brother.

"That sounds _exactly_ like something she would do," Amrothos disagrees, smirking. "I expect our dear sister was desperate for news of the Battle and Lady Eowyn was the only available source."

Lothiriel glares at her youngest brother, feeling her cheeks pink. "I did not-"

"Lady Lothiriel was merely checking on my sister as requested by your cousin, the Steward," the king interrupts, surprising them all. "My original assumption was disproved by Eowyn's own words. I owed your sister an apology."

"Hah!" Amrothos cries. "Good luck getting her to accept it."

"I already have," Lothiriel lies, ignoring the way the king's eyebrows leap towards his hairline.

"Good," comes Eowyn's voice, causing Lothiriel to jump once more. "I should hate for the two of you to be at odds."

The look Eowyn gives her, much like Erchirion's, makes Lothiriel wary.

"Well, the matter is settled then," Ada says smoothly. "I, for one, would like to be out of this armor at last, and I can only imagine that all present feel the same."

So the two groups part, Faramir lingering behind to bid Eowyn farewell. Lothiriel doesn't miss the way the king's eyes narrow at her cousin, and hopes that the revelation of _that_ development will keep him occupied in the days to come.

* * *

The rooms provided to them by Lord Denethor, kept orderly and generally quiet enough with just Dejah, Eowyn, and Lothiriel to fill them, have exploded into noise and disarray. Even worse now that the entire Dol Amroth royal family-minus Elphir and Alycia, who are still ruling their city in Ada's stead-is expected at a dinner with some of the biggest heroes from the war, including their new king.

Ada, usually so calm and collected, is visibly excited to introduce his wife and daughter to King Elessar, no matter the fact that they've seen him in passing in the Houses.

"I believe he shall be the greatest king this realm has ever known," he says in a low tone over his shoulder as they walk towards the grand hall. He is escorting Naneth, of course, her arm looped comfortably through his, leaving Lothiriel to be wedged between her two brothers.

"That seems like a lot of pressure to put on a man," Lothiriel murmurs.

"It's the truth," Amrothos says stoutly, hero-worship clear in his voice. "I doubt there is any other man like him."

"He is still a man, Amrothos," Erchirion interjects, in his quiet way. "A great one, yes, but with flaws and fears like the rest of us."

As Imrahil's two youngest children, everyone expects she and Amrothos to be close-and they are, and have been all their lives: partners through every mischief, bitter rivals when their tempers got the best of them-but it's Erchirion's opinion that Lothiriel values, wants. Her even-keel brother, wise without Elphir's occasional condescension, funny without Amrothos's accidental arrogance.

Her thoughts are wiped clean when the doors swing open and they are announced; there are fewer people here than she realized. Mithrandir is present, near to the king as always, and the Elven prince and Dwarvish warrior are not far behind.

"Prince Imrahil," the king greets, and Lothiriel thinks she understands what her father means. His voice alone is noble enough, but paired with the sincerity of his expression and the obvious steel in his spine, she would almost agree with Amrothos's earlier assessment, that there are no other men like him.

"Lord Aragorn," Ada answers. "Thank you for welcoming me and my family."

"It is an honor," the other man assures them. "Your sons do you credit, and I heard many a tale of Lady Dejah's skill while in the Houses."

"My skills are nothing when compared to the healing hands of our king," Naneth answers. "But I thank you, all the same."

The king inclines his head, a smile warming his features. "I have heard tale of your daughter as well, my lord."

Lothiriel tries to keep her face smooth, implacable, but she knows from Amrothos's silent laughter that she had flinched. Everyone the city over knows of the great friendship between the new kings of Gondor and Rohan, and she has no doubt what kind of stories King Elessar has been told about her.

"Lothiriel," Ada says, motioning her forward.

She drops into her deepest curtsy, trying to avert her eyes. "Well met, my king."

"I have heard your praises non-stop for nearly the entire march," he says, startling her into an expression that can only be described as a gape.

"From who, my lord?"

She receives her answer in the form of a tug at the waist of her gown; turning, she finds Pippin grinning up at her.

"Pippin!" She cries, bending to hug him tightly-she had seen him return, but not yet been able to see him in person-and laughs as the hobbit pats her back. The rest of the room has broken into chuckles as well, but Lothiriel cannot be bothered with that at the moment, not with her friend standing before her, whole and unhurt.

"And here I'd thought you'd forgotten all about me, my lady," Pippin mock pouts.

"Never," she assures him. "But I will have to scold you for telling tales to my new king, Pippin."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Pippin assures her staunchly. "Now, come, there's a few people you need to meet!"

He pulls her away eagerly, and she can only offer her family a helpless smile over her shoulder as she follows. Merry is the next to greet her, shaking her hand with an exuberance she's only found in hobbits, and then she's being presented to Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Gloin.

"Well met, my lady," Gimli says, dimples somehow visible through the enormity of his beard. "Our wee Master Took's been going on nonstop about you the entire march."

Pippin blushes, shrugging helplessly. "The princess has been a good friend to me. Especially with providing all sorts of tasty Gondorian treats. That's enough to win the loyalty of any hobbit."

Merry and Gimli began badgering the badgering him about what delicacies they could look forward to during dinner, and Lothiriel turns her attention towards the Elvish prince.

"It is an honor to meet you, my lord," she says, in lieu of anything else to say. Lord Legolas is an Elf, and beautiful in the way that most Elves are, and Lothiriel is grateful that being tongue-tied has never been a particular vice of hers. "My brothers speak very highly of your skill with a bow."

"I take that praise with pride, as your brothers are formidable warriors themselves," is the response. "They speak highly of you in general, my lady."

"They're all a bit biased, I'm afraid," Lothiriel says conspiratorially.

"I do not think any of their praise is unwarranted," he answers, surprising her by lifting her hand to his mouth for a kiss. A perfectly perfunctory gesture, but she blushes all the same. Dimly, she's aware of the great doors opening and closing somewhere behind her.

"You are too kind, Lord Legolas," Lothiriel manages to say, scarcely avoiding stuttering.

Faramir appears at her elbow suddenly, startling her. "Legolas, may I borrow my cousin a moment?"

Legolas nods his consent, a small smile curling the corners of his lips. Lothiriel scarcely has time to wonder _what_ could be so amusing before Faramir is all but dragging her across the room, his long steps outreaching hers in his haste.

"Fara, I need to be able to speak when we get wherever it is we're going," she manages to hiss. Faramir nearly stops, causing her to hurtle past him. Her cousin is nervous in a way she's never seen before; pink-cheeked and bright-eyed and jittery. She narrows her eyes at him for a moment before comprehension dawns. "This has something to do with Eowyn."

His cheeks only grow pinker and for once, Lothiriel thanks the Valar that she was not blessed with her cousin's fair complexion. "She spoke to her brother this afternoon."

"And?"

"He agreed. Or will, once I ask him for her hand."

Lothiriel hugs him before she can think better of it, beaming up into her cousin's face. "This is wonderful news!" He nods, but she can feel the tension in him still. "You are worried about something, cousin."

"I scarcely know what to say to the man," Faramir admits, looking stricken. "Eowyn and I have known each other for so short a time-"

"No one who has seen the two of you could doubt the sincerity of your feelings-"

"-but a brother might," Faramir interjects, smiling wryly. "Imagine, if a man you'd only known for a number of weeks asked for your hand."

Lothiriel shakes away such a ludicrous thought; she is not a romantic by nature, in the way that Faramir and Erchirion are, and doubts she could fall for someone in such a short time span.

"If I loved him the way Eowyn loves you, even Elphir would not refuse him," she insists, squeezing his hands. "Tell him of your respect and admiration for her, of how being together has helped heal you both."

Faramir gives her an appraising look. "Can this be the same cousin who once dumped sand on Lord Adrahil's son for mocking Amrothos's hair?"

Lothiriel pinches him, but is unable to keep a smile from her face. "I am not two and ten any longer, Faramir."

"No, you are not. You have grown wise, little flower, and I am very proud of you," he says, sincerity in every syllable. "Come, Eowyn said not to return without you. I think the idea of so much silverware unnerves her."

Eowyn does look relieved at her arrival, but her true happiness is saved for Faramir, and Faramir alone. Her brother, on the other hand, looks more than a little disgruntled at their sudden appearance.

 _Perhaps that's just his customary expression_ , Lothiriel thinks with a small smirk.

"Lothiriel, please tell me you understand the function of all of this blasted silverware," Eowyn begs, though her eyes are fixed on Faramir's face.

"A proper Gondorian lady is required to know their function, my lady," Lothiriel says in the snootiest tone she can muster. Faramir snorts, Eowyn grins, but the king frowns, his likely already dismal opinion of her only increasing. She leans closer to her friend then and whispers, "The fish fork, in particular, is a prime projectile."

With an agility borne of being the youngest and smallest of four, she plucks the nearest fish fork from the table and flings it deftly in Amrothos's direction, turning back around before she hears it give a satisfying _thump_.

Eowyn muffles her laughter into Faramir's shoulder as he sighs at his cousin's antics, and Eomer King could not look more surprised than if she'd just clubbed him over the head.

"I did tell you, my lord," Lothiriel says, lifting her chin to meet his incredulous look, "we Gondorian ladies are more than mere trinkets."

* * *

Bema above, but Eomer loathes everything to do with Gondor's court.

He was not made for this. Theoden King had been far from young, but was not yet old-he should have ruled for years yet, with Theodred after him, as the rightful king. But the war has robbed him and Rohan of both men, and so it falls to Eomer to pick up the mantle of king, no matter how ill prepared he feels for it.

Eowyn had frowned when he had said as much; she misses their uncle and cousin as much as he does, if not more, but is clearly unimpressed with his gloom.

"You have all the makings of a great king, Eomer," she had said as they prepared for dinner in Minas Tirith's great hall. "You have been a leader a dozen times over, led your men through battle and times of peace, and no one can doubt your bravery."

"But I know nothing of _this_ ," he spat back, gesturing helplessly at the tunic Aragorn had loaned him. Where his friend had found something this fine, so soon after a bloody war baffles him, but it's not necessarily the fine clothes he is so rattled by. Leading men into battle is one thing, but interacting with Gondorian nobles, running a country, keeping his people fed? It feels beyond him.

"I will be there to help you, as will Eothain and the rest of uncle's staff at Edoras," Eowyn had said soothingly. "Have faith, _déorest_."

 _Faith is hard to come by these days_ , Eomer thinks grumpily, as they make the short walk from the rooms Aragorn had so generously offered them to the hall.

Eowyn is nearly vibrating with nerves; she'd told him of her Steward the night before, and while wary, Eomer can find no fault in what he knows of the man. Gandalf spoke highly of him, and coming to know Faramir's kin from Dol Amroth, Eomer is sure he is a good man, kind and just.

Well, with the exception of one _particular_ cousin. The Princess Lothiriel was everything her father is not: quick to anger, quick to offense, and utterly, utterly infuriating. How Eowyn had come to have such a high opinion of the girl, he cannot begin to understand.

"One last thing, before we have to act the part of lady and king," Eowyn mutters out of the corner of her mouth. "Do try not to antagonize Lothiriel tonight. She and her mother have been very kind to me, and she is my dearest friend in Minas Tirith. I meant what I said when I would be pleased not to have you two at odds."

"I do not intend to speak to the princess at all," Eomer murmurs in response, "so the chances of my antagonizing her are slim."

Eowyn mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _we'll see about that_ before the doors open.

Aragorn steps forward to greet them, looking as much at ease as Eomer has ever seen him. His new role as king sits easily on his shoulders, as if he was born to it. Eomer envies him.

"My dear Eowyn," he says, "it is wonderful to see you recovered."

All traces of the haunted, hungry look Eowyn used to give the former ranger are gone, replaced with a deep contentment. "I owe you my thanks, my lord."

Aragorn waves that away and Eomer lets his attention wander around the room; he spots the royals of Dol Amroth, deep in conversation with Gandalf. Merry, Pippin, and Gimli are a little further away, conversing animatedly about something. Legolas has the attention of the _þyrnihtu cwén_ and he bows over her hand as Eomer watches, pressing a gentle kiss to its back.

"Pointy-eared bastard," Eomer mutters under his breath. The girl _would_ be charmed by him, with his Elven looks and manners.

The sudden pause in Aragorn and Eowyn's conversation draws him out of his reverie; he blinks and looks to find them both staring at him, smirking.

"Has Legolas done something to upset you, brother?" Aragorn asks. The tone of his voice bodes very ill, and Eomer wishes desperately for a distraction. It arrives in the form of Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins, who mercifully require Aragorn's attention. His friend is effectively distracted, but Eowyn's expression remains dangerously smug.

"Did you, or did you not, just refer to a prince of Mirkwood as a 'pointy-eared bastard'?" She asks.

"Your Steward approaches," he says by way of distraction, gratified that he can avoid the question. He's less than pleased by Eowyn's beloved's companion; it seems he is not to escape the princess's presence after all.

Faramir opens his mouth to speak, but Eowyn cuts across him, her nerves betraying her. "Lothiriel, please tell me you understand the function of all of this blasted silverware."

The princess flutters her eyelashes and straightens her spine, looking every inch the haughty noblewoman he suspects her to be. Bema, how can Eowyn abide her? "A proper Gondorian lady is required to know their function, my lady," she says, sniffing delicately. Faramir snorts, as if such a display is amusing, and Eowyn grins. The princess's eyes flick towards him, face faltering a little as she takes in his stony expression. Good. And then, she leans in, as if rewarding them all with a great secret: "The fish fork, in particular, is a prime projectile."

Eomer can scarcely process what she's said before the girl turns, plucks the nearest fish fork from Aragorn's immaculately laid out table, and flings it towards Amrothos. It makes its mark, colliding solidly with the back of her brother's head, but Lothiriel sees none of this, as she's already turned back to face them, looking like a proper princess once more.

Eowyn is all but quivering with silent laughter, Faramir looks exasperated but fond, and Eomer knows his mouth has fallen open to a decidedly unkingly expression.

"I did tell you, my lord," she says, brown eyes alight with mischief and mirth, "we Gondorian ladies are more than mere trinkets."

Eomer begins to suspect he may have gravely misjudged her.

* * *

Eventually, they are all seated for dinner. Aragorn takes one head, Imrahil the other; Imrahil's seat had been offered to Eomer first, but he'd declined. The older man has had years to perfect being a ruler and sovereign. Eomer is all too happy to allow him that place of honor and enjoy what is sure to be one of his last nights in a less exalted spot.

He ends up between Merry and Erchirion, an agreeable enough arrangement for all of them. Merry is always one for lively conversation and ale, without the slightly inane bent of Pippin's brand of humor. Erchirion is the quieter of the Dol Amroth princes, but Eomer likes his sense, his quiet wit.

What he likes less is the scene directly across from him; the princess sits there, with Eowyn to her left, and Faramir beyond that.

Eowyn is as giddy as he's ever seen her; though he knows only he, and perhaps the source of her giddiness, can tell how happy she actually is. Her head is inclined towards Faramir's in deep conversation, leaving the princess to fend for herself.

She looks unaffected by this development, meeting his stare with an arched eyebrow.

"So Eomer," Amrothos asks, leaning around his elder brother with a leer Eomer's not sure he likes, "what do you think of Minas Tirith?"

In truth, Minas Tirith is unlike any city he's ever seen. Even the largest cities of Rohan-Edoras included-held half, if not less, of the amount of people that usually lived here, not to mention the great stone walls and rings of houses. But it is cold in a way that the Golden Hall is not, even with Aragorn's new appointment as king. Cold and foreign in a way that makes Eomer itch for the rolling plains of home, for the warmth and familiarity of his father's house at Aldburg, or even Theoden's Hall when last he'd been there.

 _My hall, now_ , Eomer realizes with a jolt.

Erchirion clears his throat lightly and Eomer blinks, returning to himself. "The city is beautiful."

"But?" Prompts Amrothos, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

 _Perhaps he is more like his sister than I realized,_ Eomer thinks, resisting the urge to scowl at the younger man.

"Do stop prying, Amrothos," said princess interjects, fixing her brother with a stern look. "Minas Tirith is beautiful and _cold_ , as we ourselves have said for years. There's no need to put Eomer King on the spot like that, other than for pure mischief."

Eomer blinks at her, stunned. Amrothos looks far from apologetic, tipping his wine goblet in his sister's direction. "Lothiriel speaks truly, Eomer. I merely wanted to see if you were of a like mind."

"Then perhaps you should have asked," Erchirion chides, gently, "rather than make a newly minted king insult the city he and his people sacrificed much to save."

Awareness finally dawns on Amrothos's face and he grimaces, chagrined. "You are right, Erchirion. Eomer, my apologies."

The topic drifts towards more comfortable subjects; the elder prince of Dol Amroth is an expert horseman and is happy to discuss their respective mounts. Eomer is grateful that Pippin has managed to engage Amrothos in conversation-he will not forget the prince's penchant for mischief-and surprised to find the princess listening in to his own discussion.

"The greatest of our horses are descended from the Meras, at least in part," Eomer is explaining to Erchirion. "We cannot keep them in our stables, of course, but from time to time they visit during the breeding seasons. The foals are left to us to raise."

"Was your horse such a colt?" The princess asks suddenly.

The corners of Erchirion's mouth twitch and Eomer raises an eyebrow at the woman across the table. Lothiriel promptly flushes, one hand fiddling with the end of her long braid.

"Why do you ask, my lady?"

"I have never seen a dappled horse like him before," she admits, "nor one so large. My brothers mentioned how quick he was to obey you on the field of battle, in a way that even none of the most well-trained horses can."

 _She's more observant that I would have thought_ , Eomer thinks. "Your brothers spoke truly, but I am afraid that Firefoot is merely an excellent mount."

"And Eomer a more than fair rider," Eowyn chimes in, finally aware of more than her suitor. "The pair of them could best all of Rohan, and I suspect Gondor too."

"I wonder how Firefoot would fare against your Niphredil, Lothiriel," Amrothos muses. In a lower tone, he murmurs, "My father has three sons and yet chooses to give his daughter the best horse."

"I earned Nipredhil," Lothiriel grumbles, glaring at her brother, "and you would do well to remember just _how_ , Amrothos."

"How?" Eowyn asks.

"Yes, do tell us, my lady," adds Pippin, from further down the table.

The princess blinks, cheeks pinking again as the majority of the table turns its full attention on her. "Oh, no, please, it's an old family story-"

"All of us here are friends," comes Aragorn's voice from the head of the table. His eyes are alight with nearly as much mischief as Amrothos's had been earlier, and Eomer wonders what he has done to deserve such scheming friends. "And we could all certainly do with a light-hearted story."

Amrothos tries to pipe in, "Really, it's not so interesting-"

"I disagree," Faramir interjects. "I think it is one of my favorite stories about the pair of you as children."

After a few more moments of persuading-with Eowyn leaning heavily on the arm of Lothiriel's chair and Merry offering her a winning smiles-something in the princess deflates, softens.

"When I was ten," Lothiriel begins, seemingly smiling despite herself, "Naneth's mare gave birth to a filly."

A more beautiful filly there had never been, according to the princess. With a gleaming white coat and deep brown eyes, she'd fallen in love with the foal instantly.

"But it was my year to claim a foal," Amrothos adds, still frowning. "I had one mount already, but Ada always cautioned about having more than one ready horse, should anything befall the former."

"So I challenged him," Lothiriel continues. "To whatever contest he saw fit, to prove that the filly was mine and not his."

"And what did you choose, my lord?" Asks Legolas.

Amrothos mutters something unintelligible.

"I believe it was a wrestling match," comes Imrahil's amused voice. "A rather unfair choice, my son."

"You challenged a wee princess to a wrestling match?" Gimli asks. "That was in poor taste, Prince Amrothos."

"Yes, yes, I know," Amrothos sighs. "I have heard the same sentiment many times over since I chose the damn trial."

"It mattered not," Erchirion adds, smiling, "since he did not take into account our sister's habit to fight like a warg when she truly wants something."

"Not to mention a few key lessons from her fearsome cousins," Lady Dejah murmurs.

There's a moment of silence as the table digests this.

"You...won the match?" Eomer finally asks, as none of the rest seem to be able to find their voices.

"In fine form, too," Faramir chuckles. "How long did you sit on his back after you'd beaten him, Lothiriel?"

"Oh, around an hour, I'd say," Lothiriel answers. "And I only let him up _after_ he swore he'd never ride Niphredil without my express permission, and that he'd have to carry me around on his back for a week instead if he hadn't asked."

Every eye at the table turns towards Amrothos.

"And...how old were you at the time, laddie?"

"...five and ten," Amrothos mumbles.

The table dissolves into laughter; Pippin laughs so hard he nearly falls from his chair, and even Gandalf has tears in his eyes. Amrothos, unsurprisingly, looks mortified, but Lothiriel looks as at ease as Eomer's ever seen her, her head tipped helplessly onto Eowyn's shoulder and her hand pressed to her mouth to hold back her giggles.

 _Perhaps I was too harsh in my original judgment of her_ , he thinks.

If nothing else, it is Amrothos who is the most annoying of the Dol Amroth royals, and he can like the princess a little better by that fact alone.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Aaaaaaand we have progress! Lothiriel has officially been downgraded from 'haughty noblewoman' to 'less annoying than Amrothos' which, to be fair, isn't a hard feat. Baby steps, my darlings, baby steps. We'll be back next chapter with more interactions between our favorite duo, with plenty of chances for them to annoy-er, I mean-get to know each other ;)

Also, you'll note in this chapter onward the presence of "Rohirric" (Old English) terms popping up. I'll do my best to translate them, as most of them are plot/character important, but please point out if I've left one out!

 _déorest:_ dearest

 _þyrnihtu cwén:_ prickly princess

Niphredil: Sindarian for 'little pallor', but references the snowdrop-like flowers that bloomed at Luthien's birth (Lothiriel's name, coincendentally, means 'flower-garlanded maiden' so she had to stay on brand, obviously)


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** y'all, thanks again for the awesomely kind reviews! It makes updating an absolute joy (and I have to remind myself to pace the updates, so I don't just throw it all up here at once!) I have to especially thank **Avonmora** , whose super sweet review made me tear up a bit; no one's ever paid me such a big compliment on my writing before, and it means the world!

Anyways, onward to the story! Here be dancing, cultural snafus, and banter :)

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

The weeks passed quickly, and before too long, it had been two months since Sauron's fall.

Two months, and still not all of his men have been able to return home.

Eomer knows, logically, why they cannot; too many of them are still recovering from their wounds. While he has been able to return home once or twice, the rides are arduous and tedious. Theoden King's council has been managing Edoras, and Gamling-who he trusts above all others-has been sending reports as quickly as they can arrive. Not to mention that missing Aragorn's coronation would be a slap in the face of the so-recently established good will between their countries.

But he had meant what he had said-or rather, what he _hadn't_ said-at that very first dinner: Minas Tirith was beautiful, yes, but a remote sort of beauty. Cold. Unreachable.

If only its ladies were the same.

With every wave of returning nobles, there were at least a dozen daughters, nieces, and wards being paraded in front of him and Aragorn at every turn. Aragorn, the bastard, at least had the knowledge that his Elf-lady was waiting for him to be crowned king, but there was no such relief for Eomer. Many of his men were enamoured of the women of Gondor's darker looks, as any hair color darker than auburn was a rarity in the Mark. And there _have_ been pretty women presented to him, despite their unfamiliar garb and rouged cheeks. But it is the noblewomen's artifice that Eomer cannot stand. Give him a bold lass, honest and true, her hair flowing around her shoulders as Bema preferred. These painted ladies had _nothing_ on the women of Rohan, at least in his mind. They simpered and laughed and touched his arm _far_ too much, heedless of the fact that he was in mourning.

Worse still, was Eowyn's budding romance with the Steward.

Oh, he liked Faramir-as well as one can like a man with obvious intentions towards one's sister-but he likes much less the strict rules of courting imposed in Minas Tirith. In Rohan, courting was simple. If a man takes an interest in a woman, he presents her with gifts, and if she reciprocates his feelings, they are troughed. Occasionally, the family gets involved, with the more gently-born women or a particularly...adventurous man. But nothing like here. Here, with their courtly masks and whispered words behind delicate fans. Here, where it is considered "indecorous" to allow two grown people, full of affection for each other, to touch hands without a chaperone.

Utter horseshit.

"It's not so bad as all that," Eowyn had murmured the other day, during their mid-morning meal. "Not all Gondorians are so stuffy. What of our friends from Dol Amroth?"

Eomer can concede that the royals of Dol Amroth were a breath of fresh air amongst the painted and gilded nobles of Minas Tirith. Imrahil and Dejah were wise and just, Erchirion was an excellent rider and had the miraculous good sense to know when to leave some silences as they were, Amrothos-when not irritating past the point of reason-was always good for a laugh and a goblet of Gondorian wine. Even the _þyrnihtu cwén_ was preferable to her fairer, flirtatious countrywoman.

"Preferable," Aragorn had snorted when he'd said as such, amused at something that Eomer didn't quite understand. "As you say, brother."

Eothain had shared a similar sentiment. His captain was one of his oldest friends, one of the few men he could expect to tell the truth after his move from marshal to king, and yet…

"You cannot be serious," Eomer groans.

Eothain gives him a pointed look. "You invited Eowyn for a ride and she invited her Steward. Said Steward had already invited his lovely cousin. It was hardly my place to uninvite her."

As it was, three riders were currently making their way across the open fields towards them. Eowyn was on her borrowed chestnut palfrey, Faramir on a mighty black destrier, and Lothiriel, on one of the fairest horses he's ever seen. A beautiful snowy white gelding, with brown eyes to match her mistress's.

 _She has a good seat, for a Gondorian princess_ , he thinks.

"Good morning, brother!" Eowyn calls, sounding far too cheery. "A good day for a ride, is it not?"

"You seem cheerful," is his response, "I must ask that you desist."

Faramir snorts a laugh and the princess badly disguises hers with a cough.

"Charming, Eomer," says his sister, "and the councillors wonder how it is that you are not yet wed."

"Eowyn-" Eomer growls; he'd rather _not_ have that discussion in front of her suitor and _certainly_ not in front of his precocious cousin.

"I suffer from a similar affliction," said cousin adds, interrupting him before he can work himself into a black fury, "though I doubt Eomer King lacks for possible brides for the same reasons as I lack possible grooms."

"Yes, it would be odd if the king of Rohan went around dumping water on people or slipping starfish into people's beds," Faramir says dryly.

"It was one time, and Deogar deserved it," the princess says firmly. "I regret nothing."

"You never do," Faramir chuckles, clearly fond.

 _Bema above_ , Eomer thinks, _she's another Eowyn_.

But Eowyn would not have picked up on the subtle way that Faramir nudges his horse to be a few paces ahead of Eomer's; the princess does, dropping back from her cousin's side to allow Eowyn to take her place.

Eothain rides behind them, with the rest of his guards. A marshal would have required no such protection on a simple pleasure ride, but a king cannot be so unattended. It is an unwelcome reminder of how much his status has changed in so short a time. He and the princess ride in silence for a span of moments, both trying not to listen in to the lovers' conversation occurring in front of them. Eowyn laughs at something Faramir has said, and his deeper voice joins in.

"It is wonderful that they should find such happiness," the princess says suddenly. "I can think of no other two people who deserve it more."

Much as he wants to, he can hardly disagree with her. Eowyn has suffered enough. And from what the princess's brothers have told him of Lord Denethor, Faramir's life has been no easy thing either. Both of them deserve their joy in each other, even if it may mean losing his sister to Gondor.

"It is the early days yet, my lady," he says instead, seemingly unable to keep from needling her.

He sees her mouth fall open and has to repress a grin at her disgruntled expression. "The early days?" She repeats, incredulous. "What do you mean, my lord?"

"They have just begun courting, if you can call it that," Eomer spits, finally finding someone to vent his anger at Gondor's strange courting habits to. "What kind of people insist on all of this pomp and circumstance between a couple? A marriage is between two people, not a city."

"But Faramir is the Steward, and Eowyn the equivalent of a princess," Lothiriel answers. "They are more than a mere serving girl or a groom. People will want to know that they are courting, and courting properly." At this, her nose wrinkles. "I cannot say I support the customs. They are stifling, my lord, and antiquated, but they are tradition. And Gondor loves nothing so well as tradition."

Now it is his turn to gape. She notes his look with a smile.

"I am not of Minas Tirith, my lord. Dol Amroth's traditions are more similar to Rohan's, if what Eowyn has told me is to be believed."

"I doubt that very much," he grumbles, wondering what his sister could have told her. Imrahil and his family are different from the other nobles, this much is true, but he cannot imagine the prince condoning his daughter kissing a man before being troughed to him, the way so many Rohirric maids do.

Lothiriel frowns at him, all earlier hint of mirth gone. "My lord, has anyone ever told you that you make even the most pleasant of topics less so?"

"I could level the same compliment at you, my lady," Eomer retorts, glaring.

Many a man has withered under his rather infamous glare, but this tiny princess stands firm, meeting it with one of her own. "Then I will avail you of my presence, Eomer King. I have no desire to remain where I am not wanted."

She spurs her horse into a canter, passing a bewildered looking Faramir and an exasperated Eowyn. Eomer merely frowns at his sister's unhappy look.

"That makes the fifth suitably noble-and attractive, I might add-lady that you have managed to scare off in as many days," Eothain's voice comes from over his shoulder, sounding irritatedly amused. "Whatever did you say to her?"

"Nothing that wasn't true," Eomer barks. "And stop laughing, you are supposed to be a dignified captain of the Mark."

"And you are supposed to be its magnificent king," Eothain retorts. "And yet what sort of king sends friendly, pretty maidens scurrying away as if they are Orcs?"

Eomer grits his teeth, ignoring his friend. Pretty as the princess may be, friendly she is not.

* * *

"Insufferable man!" Lothiriel cries, flinging her riding cloak into the nearest chair.

"What has Amrothos done now?" Comes Erchirion's uninterested voice.

"I resent that, brother!" Amrothos yells back. "And I have done nothing, at least yet."

"Amrothos is free of blame, this time," Lothiriel agrees, settling herself on the bench beside her middle brother. "How you two and Ada can have such a high opinion of that dreadful man never fails to baffle me."

"Ah," Amrothos says, "Eomer again."

"Yes, Eomer again," Lothiriel spits, crossing her arms. "Were he not Eowyn's brother, I would have boxed his ears for being so rude and childish."

"Let it not be forgotten that he is also royalty," says Naneth, sensible as always. "And boxing the king of Rohan's ears may result in another war."

"Who is boxing Eomer's ears?" Asks Ada, coming in from the solar.

"Lothiriel," his sons answer in unison, much to Lothiriel's horror.

"I have done no such thing!" She promises. Frowning, she nestles down into her seat. "Though I would heartily like to do so."

"Do try not to ruin Gondor's diplomatic relationship with Rohan, little flower," Ada chides gently, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "Eomer is not a bad man, Lothiriel, only one who feels unready for the level of power he now holds."

"That does not excuse his rudeness," she grumbles.

"No, but it should make you more understanding of it," Ada says. "And has Lady Eowyn not asked you to try and be cordial to him?"

Oh, it was not _fair_ of him to bring up her promise to Eowyn!

"Yes, Ada," Lothiriel mumbles.

"That settles it then. There shall be no boxing of Eomer King's ears. Now," at this, Ada claps his hands, "let us go over our positions during King Elessar's coronation."

Erchirion throws an arm around her shoulders; her brother knows better than most how hard she's been _trying_ to see the man that they know in the king, the brother that Eowyn loves so much and the leader that his men respect. If only he would not make it so difficult!

But with her favorite brother beside her and her father's well-loved voice in her ears, it's easy to forget her earlier irritation and simply enjoy being with her family, after so long apart.

* * *

The coronation happens on a beautifully sunny day. Minas Tirith comes out in full force, along with all of the delegations from the other provinces and countries.

Her entire family is in the blue and silver of their city, swans on her father and brothers' chests and Naneth's hair held back by a net of pearls. Lothiriel's own dress is the navy blue she prefers most, cut in a more adult style than any formal dress she's ever worn in Dol Amroth, but still, she feels much more ugly duckling than swan amongst the finery. The ladies of the city are as pale as Minas Tirith's walls, and the deep blue of her dress does nothing to demphasize the golden brown of her skin or the dark brown waves of her hair.

"You look beautiful," Erchirion murmurs, giving her hand a squeeze.

She and her middle brother resemble their mother most, in both complexion and bone structure. Amrothos has her hair, Elphir, her cheekbones; all things that they are proud of, but the court of Minas Tirith mistrusts in them. She wishes, suddenly, for Elphir's presence. Her dutiful, serious brother, so long holding Dol Amroth. He was the best liked of all of them in Minas Tirith. The most Minas Tirithin in manner, with the greatest likeness to Prince Imrahil; he could have married any daugher of the White City. Instead, he fell in love with Alycia. Sweet, kind, beautiful Alycia, of Umbar. Many in Minas Tirith regarded it as a political match, surely made for gain and gain alone, but that is not the Dol Amroth way.

 _No_ , Lothiriel thinks, _when we marry, we marry for love._

And speaking of love...Lothiriel offers Eowyn a small smile from where they stand across the aisle from each other; she is beside Faramir, a position that speaks volumes about their intentions towards one another.

And then-

Aragorn's Elf-lady has arrived, and she is more beautiful than anyone could have imagined. Fair skin with an ethereal glow, blue eyes that seem to sparkle with an inner light, and a radiant smile, even when the King surprises everyone by drawing her into a passionate kiss.

"And before the whole city, too!" Amrothos murmurs. "I thought Elves were supposed to be dignified."

"If I remember correctly, you have also been caught kissing in places you shouldn't have, little brother," Erchirion whispers back, causing Lothiriel to giggle.

The excitement of the day makes it pass faster, and all too soon they are at the grandest of all of the celebrations, at the High King's table.

Aragorn has never looked happier, nor more at peace, and despite having known him for so short a time, Lothiriel can wish her king nothing but joy. The dinner has finished and the dancing begins. Unsurprisingly, the King and his Lady lead the couples, looking so radiantly happy that everyone else seems dimmed in comparison.

Amrothos has already found himself a partner-Lady Serawn, a family friend-and Erchirion-never one for dancing-is engrossed in conversation with Mithrandir, Ada, and Naneth. Lothiriel suddenly wishes for Alycia; her sister-in-law is one of the only women who understand how out of place she feels at these types of balls.

It is not that she is not one for dancing: on the contrary, she adores dancing, just as she enjoys anything that lets her be active for more than a few fleeting moments. In Dol Amroth, she would not lack for possible partners, as her brothers' friends have always enjoyed dancing with her. But here, in Minas Tirith, she is too...southron. Too dark, too vocal, too _much_. No matter for all her rank as the highest born Gondorian noblewoman, few men of Minas Tirith would risk association with her for fear of losing their chances with the fairer, more acceptable ladies of the city.

Faramir spins by with a beaming Eowyn. Another dance partner lost to her, though she cannot fault them for their happiness.

"Why do you not dance, my lady?" Pippin's voice startles her out of her gloomy thoughts.

"I am afraid I find myself lacking a suitable partner, Pippin," she answers, smiling down at him.

He frowns. "How could the most beautiful lady in the hall lack for partners?"

"Ah," Lothiriel says, "but she does not."

Pippin gives her a confused look until she nods in Arwen's direction. The hobbit smiles, expression fond.

"Lady Arwen is truly fair, my lady, but I was referring to you," at this, his eyes narrow, "you don't think your brothers warned all the lads off you, do you?"

Lothiriel laughs at that; hobbits truly are remarkable creatures.

"No, my dear friend, they have not," comes another familiar voice-Prince Legolas. "For I intend to ask the lady for the next dance."

Lothiriel blinks, surprised. "And you may have it, my lord."

It seems Legolas's invitation had been the magic touch; after her dance with him, she is spun into Amrothos's waiting arms, then Faramir's, then even Aragorn himself, who laughs himself nearly sick when she frets about upsetting his Lady.

"Arwen is not like the ladies of Minas Tirith, Lothiriel," he assures her. "I think you and she will get along very well."

Personally, Lothiriel did not think that an Elf-maid of unsurpassed beauty and kindness would have much in common with her, a short-tempered and short-lived princess of Men, but she supposes she will have to trust Aragorn's judgment on this.

Her king excuses himself shortly after, leaving a new partner in his place. Or rather, a pair of partners.

"Pippin, Merry," she sighs, but not without fondness, "I may be considerably smaller than my brothers, but I do not see how the two of you expect us to be able to dance with our differences in height."

Grinning, they both take one of her hands and lead her into a wild whirl. She knows it is improper, she knows that it is only damning her even more in the eyes of the court, but she is happy, she is with her friends, and she cannot bring herself to care.

* * *

"So many fair ladies in attendance tonight, but all the best are claimed," an unfamiliar voice grumbles.

Eothain raises an eyebrow at this, locking eyes with his King. The voice had come from a pair of unfamiliar Gondorian nobles, likely of Minas Tirith judging by their accents and clothes.

"The future queen is a true beauty, truly of the Valar," another one adds.

"And Faramir's White Lady; if all women look like that in Rohan, we should consider a move."

Eomer grits his teeth at that; Eowyn is beautiful, of course, but to hear men speaking of her as if she was nothing more than her beauty sets him on edge.

"Lady Serawn is lovely, even if she is dancing with the southron brat."

"Bah, Amrothos is not so bad. He's nearly as fair as I am in the summer."

"That sister of his, though…"

"So dark! It's as if Imrahil does not care that his wife is rumored to be _Harradrim_ , much less his daughter."

"It's not only her coloring, Endehil, but _her_. I know they do things differently at the court of Dol Amroth, but look! Behaving like a common strumpet, letting those little half-men turn her about."

"Bastards," Eothain hisses, "they have no room to talk about the princess as if they know her."

Eomer, for once, shares his friend's outrage. Much as the princess annoys him, she does not deserve such harsh judgment for things she cannot change about herself-namely her coloring, which Eowyn had tried to explain the prejudice behind some days before.

And she looks so happy, dancing between Merry and Pippin, perhaps the happiest he has ever seen her.

 _Happiness suits her much more than anger_ , a little voice in his head whispers.

Ignoring that, Eomer passes his goblet off to Eothain before making his way towards the laughing princess and her hobbit escorts.

"Merry, Pippin, is it not time for another mug of ale?" He asks by way of greeting.

They eye him for a moment, exchange a look, and then nod. "I was just thinking I was a bit parched," Merry says.

"And my stomach is close to wasting away," Pippin says. "Thank you for the dance, my lady."

"Anytime, Pippin," she says, sincerity in every syllable.

 _She has a pleasant voice, this prickly princess, when not pinched with anger._

He blinks, realizing she is staring at him expectantly. "I assume you dismissed them for a reason, my lord?"

Bema, he truly hasn't thought this through, has he?

"I...it would seem I owe you another apology, my lady," his mouth running away with him again.

Her eyebrows now nearly disappear into her hairline. "My lord?"

"I should not have snapped at you," he explains, "and certainly not about Faramir's courtship of Eowyn. He is a good man, and though I am not convinced anyone can be truly worthy of my sister, he seems to be the closest any man will ever come to such a high standard. The...traditions of Minas Tirith are hardly his fault."

She nods, relaxing slightly. "I understand your apprehension. The customs here _are_ stuffy. But that does not mean my cousin's feelings towards your sister are any less sincere."

The princess makes a motion somewhere behind him; he turns, to find Faramir spinning passed with Eowyn once more, both of them smiling and flushed.

"No, that I cannot doubt," Eomer admits.

His little sister, all grown up…

"While I appreciate the apology, I do not think that is the true reason you came over here in such a hurry," Lothiriel's voice interrupts his thoughts and he turns back to face her. Her eyes are the dark brown of her mother's, but in that moment, he can see all of Imrahil's shrewdness in them, daring him to reveal his motives.

If he knows anything of this girl, this princess, he knows that she is proud, and to hear that her own countrymen were speaking cruelly of her for no other reason than for her complexion...it would wound her pride, greatly. And for some reason, that, he cannot abide.

"Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?"

It does give him more satisfaction than it should to watch her mouth fallen open in surprise.

"I...truly?"

"Do you see any other outspoken, occasional healer princesses about?"

That startles a laugh out of her, and warmth enters those brown eyes, followed shortly after by a smile.

 _Bema, a smile like that could warm a man to the backbone!_

"I am afraid there is only me, my lord."

"That is just as well. I do not think Middle Earth could handle another," Eomer answers.

Were her hand not already in his, he thinks she might have snatched it back, but the eyes of the court are on them now. She is a tiny thing, barely clearing his shoulder, but her hand is surprisingly warm and her steps light. He has had worse dancing partners; she seems to have dropped her animosity towards him for the time being, instead inquiring about Rohan and its customs.

In fact, they become so absorbed in their conversation that they somehow miss the end of the dance, nearly smacking into a smirking Amrothos.

"Traditionally, when the music ends, one exchanges partners," he says drolly, plucking Lothiriel's hand from Eomer's shoulder and tucking it into the crook of his arm.

"Traditionally, princes are supposed to be handsome and charming," his sister retorts, "a pity that you are only the former."

"Thiri, you wound me," he whines. "Eomer, is your sister half as cruel as mine?"

Two pairs of brown eyes turn on him, and Eomer feels as if he is in a trap. "I do not think I provoke my sister the way you do yours, Amrothos." There! A neutral enough answer.

"Probably because she could run you through with a sword if you did," Amrothos chuckles.

Eomer gives Lothiriel an appraising look; small though she may be, he does not doubt her ability to lift a sword. A bow would perhaps suit her better, if adjusted for her height, or even a dagger...she is no shieldmaiden, but he doubts she would have any sort of trouble with defending herself.

"I think yours could manage it too," he says.

Amrothos pales suddenly, looking nervous, but Lothiriel's eyes are warm again, her smile firmly back in place.

"I appreciate your vouch of confidence, my lord," she says, "but I do not think Aragorn and his lady would thank me for getting my brother's blood all over the floor in the middle of a coronation ball."

"Perhaps save his murder for their wedding feast, instead?"

Bema, he has not had the urge to tease in _months_ , but the action comes easily enough now, in the face of Amrothos's horror and Lothiriel's amusement.

"Ah, yes, a much more appropriate venue," she agrees.

"I think I liked it better when you thought him insufferable," Amrothos grumbles. "But Thiri, really, Naneth sent me. She and Ada wish to retire for the evening, and want to bid you goodnight."

"Oh, of course," Lothiriel says, her face growing more serious. "Eomer King, if you would excuse us?"

He nods and the siblings step away; it's only then that he realizes Lothiriel's other hand has been in his the entire time and drops it quickly. Only a brief, curious glance back at him over her shoulder indicates that she'd noticed as well.

Even when he finds Eothain, smirking in the corner, and accepts a fresh goblet of wine, he cannot forget the sensation of her smaller hand in his.

"Not a total waste of an evening, then?" His captain asks, looking entirely too smug.

"There's still plenty of time to dump you in a fountain," Eomer growls.

Eothain wisely lets the matter rest.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** the lyrics from 'Tale As Old As Time' would NOT get out of my head for this chapter, though obviously it's a bit soon for love to be discussed. But the beginnings of a friendship has emerged! I feel like I should clarify that this story does tend to put the 'slow' in slow-burn, very unlike my other Eomer/Lothiriel story, so I hope y'all are willing to stick it out with me!

Next chapter we'll be back with more dancing, meddling friends, and a philosophical discussion of beauty ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Eek, you guys, thanks again for such a positive reaction to the past chapter! And many thanks to **Adelie P** for the notes on grammar; apparently I edited the document on my computer, but not the version that ended up online! I don't bite, y'all, and I appreciate the comments/recommendations/critique.

And now, onward! You'll find more dancing Hobbits, Gondor's version of Mr. Collins, and a discussion of beauty ;)

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

* * *

The wedding of the King and Queen of Gondor follows the coronation ceremony as quickly as decorum will allow, or in Amrothos's words: too bloody long.

In truth, it is a mere two weeks before the entire glittering assemblage is gathered once more; Aragorn, Lothiriel suspects, pushed for this break-neck pace for two reasons. One, out of respect for their Rohirric allies, who are clearly chomping at the bit to return home and bury Theoden King and honor their other dead. Two, because even for one of the Dunedin and an Elf, forty years was a long time to wait to wed.

The ceremony itself is beautiful and mercifully-everyone suspects Gandalf's influence-brief.

The feast afterwards? Decidedly less so.

The entirety of the court seems to have decided to drink as much ale as possible, even the most reserved. Lothiriel even spies Naneth having an uncustomary fourth glass of wine; the spots of pink on her cheeks give her mother's unusually giddy state away.

"Erchirion, look," she whispers, nudging him.

Her brother follows her gaze and smiles, fond. "She and Ada have always found such joy in one another. I think she is willing to to have more wine than usual now that he is home and safe."

The undisguised longing in his voice is unmistakable. Of all of the royal siblings of Dol Amroth, it is Erchirion with the poet's heart, Erchirion who would happily throw down the mantle of soldier and prince for a girl who truly loved him.

"You will have that too, 'Chirion," Lothiriel murmurs, squeezing his hands. "Of that I feel certain."

He offers her a wistful smile. Their quiet conversation is interrupted by Gimli's sudden arrival.

"What's this I hear of you giving the pointy-eared princeling a dance at the coronation and not offering me one in return?" He grumbles, though Lothiriel has come to know him well enough to spot the twinkle in his eyes.

"A grave error on my part, Master Gimli," she assures him. "Shall I set this to rights? I should hate to see Dol Amroth suffer the lack of the friendship of your people because of my foolish mistake."

Gimli flaps his hands at her, indicating she should stand. "Yes, yes, my lady princess, I shall claim a dance."

Amrothos guffaws as they pass him; Lothiriel has not the usual height of Numenorean descendants, but Gimli still stands a good head shorter than she. But she _had_ danced with Legolas and with the dear hobbits. It would not be right to refuse the Dwarf, not when he has been so kind.

Gimli is not the best partner she's ever had, but he makes up for it and more with his conversation. He manages to tell her a story about Boromir that she's never heard-Pippin has been _very_ remiss in not telling her-and has to stifle a laugh at the picture he creates: two tiny hobbits, banding together to take down the Captain of Gondor.

"He would have loved to have seen the city like this," she says, feeling melancholy all of a sudden. "Alive. Happy. Hopeful."

"Perhaps he can, lass," Gimli answers. "Wherever he is, he deserves his peace."

She offers him a small nod, forcing a smile back to her face as the music finishes. "Has my debt been sufficiently paid, Master Gimli?"

"Aye," he says roundly, the twinkle back in his eye. "Though if you dance with Legolas again, I shall be forced to beg another of you."

Agreeing on this fair price, she allows him to lead her back to her seat.

It's not long before the hobbits arrive, a bemused Eowyn and a fond-looking Arwen in tow. Even Master Samwise, usually so quiet, has clearly been buoyed by the flow of ale and wine.

"Can we persuade you to dance with us, my lady?" He asks.

Pippin shoots her a toothy grin and Merry nods eagerly.

"If you have already commandeered my queen and future cousin, I do not see how I can refuse," she laughs, offering Sam her hand.

She senses the eyes of the court on them as the hobbits lead all three ladies to the dance floor. Were the queen not among them, she suspects whispers would have been flying already. But Arwen has done an admirable job of charming the court in her short time here, and Eowyn is all but promised to Faramir, who would not care what the nobles whisper anyway. The censure will likely fall on Lothiriel's shoulders, and hers alone. Eowyn sees the sudden apprehension on her face and frowns mightily, so resembling her brother in that moment that Lothiriel has to hold back a surprised laugh.

"Damn this court," She mutters, squeezing Lothiriel's elbow. "Why must everything be 'good' and 'proper' in Minas Tirith? This is a wedding feast, for Bema's sake!"

"A wedding feast should be most proper of all," Lothiriel whispers back. "Tradition, you know."

"We have traditions in the Mark as well," Eowyn argues, "but none of them involve punishing a woman for dancing with a friend!"

The queen, in that unerring way of hers, touches Lothiriel's shoulder gently, though her eyes twinkle with mirth in a way not dissimilar from her new husband. "Be well, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. Any friend worth having will not begrudge you dancing with decorated war heroes, no matter their stature."

Eowyn smothers a laugh at that and Lothiriel cannot help but grin; Aragorn and Arwen's marriage makes more sense all the time.

But then the music starts and she turns to face a suddenly shy Sam, and Lothiriel privately thinks the court's opinion be damned. Tonight was an evening for fun!

* * *

From his position at the high table, Eomer can only watch in mild horror as the hobbits lead three of the highest ranking women in both kingdoms out onto the dance floor.

"Those hobbits," Eomer mutters, "they could charm a warg into gentleness."

"I hope you are not comparing to my wife, your sister, and a princess of Dol Amroth to wargs, brother," says Aragorn, looking far too at ease. "I should hate to break the peace between our countries so soon."

Eomer does not have the chance to reply before Gimli interjects, settling his large mug of ale down on the table with a clatter. "Bah, let the wee ones have their fun. They have earned it."

"I hope you mean the hobbits, not the ladies," Legolas murmurs, face serene.

Gimli splutters in outrage as the rest of the table laughs.

"Truly, I do not think there has been such an overabundance of beauty in the court of Minas Tirith in an age," Gandalf murmurs thoughtfully. "Not to mention the strength of the ladies' spirits as well."

"I should think strength of spirit should come first and beauty second," Imrahil adds sagely, giving his wife a warm look. "Beauty may fade, but heart does not."

"Unless you're an Elf," Amrothos quips.

The topic of beauty goes round and round for a while-all of them are fairly deep in their cups, save perhaps Legolas-until Gimli declares he _has_ seen the fairest lady in all of Middle Earth, and it is not any of the ladies present.

"Fairer than the queen?" Amrothos asks, in clear disbelief. "I do not believe such a lady exists!"

"That is because you have not met the Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood." The Dwarf's eyes grow misty. "She is as fair as the dawn, with long golden hair…"

"Not so different than the Lady Eowyn, then," Amrothos teases.

"What say you, Eomer?" Gandalf asks. "For you come from a country of fair-haired maidens, and can surely pass the best judgment."

"Alas, the Lady Galadriel's beauty is too high and distant for me, for all of her fair hair," he admits. Gimli gives him a stony look and Eomer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I would have to award the title of most fair to Lady Arwen."

"Well, at least you have good taste," Aragorn says, grinning. "Peace, Gimli, I will not believe you do not consider my wife also deserving of the title."

"If not Lady Galadriel, then Arwen is an apt choice," Gimli agrees, his good humor returning.

"Faramir, what say you?" Amrothos asks.

His cousin smiles softly, eyes clearly on Eowyn. "I think it should be obvious who my choice would be."

"Spoken like a man in love!" Gimli cries, clapping Faramir on the shoulder.

Erchirion, who looks a little glassy-eyed over his seventh mug of ale, murmurs something. His mother gives him a fond look and prods him gently, prompting him to sit up straighter.

"What was that, Erchirion?" She asks.

"I do not see why we need argue over who is the most fair," he finally says, speech surprisingly without slur. "For they are all lovely in different ways."

A sudden silence falls over the table. "Do explain, dear boy," Lady Dejah says again, stroking her son's hand. It seems that Erchirion has taken this matter more to heart than the rest of them, unsurprising when one considers his romantic nature.

"I have not seen the Lady Galadriel, but if we are to go by Gimli's tales of her beauty, than she is Lady Dawn, bright and otherworldly. And if she is Dawn, than surely Lady Arwen is Lady Moon; a darker beauty, more serene, less harsh. And Lady Eowyn is certainly Lady Sun: warm, passionate, bold."

"Surely you will not leave your sister out of the celestial beauties you are describing," says Legolas.

A fond smile pulls at the corner of Erchirion's mouth. "Certainly not. Lothiriel is Lady Twilight."

"Twilight is often considered to be a foreboding time of evening," Faramir murmurs, frowning slightly. "I am not sure Lothiriel would like your choice."

"But she can be foreboding, when she puts her mind to it," Erchirion argues. "And yet sweet at the same time, with all of the warmth of the Sun and the dark beauty of the Moon. Twilight should not be feared, but respected, treasured."

Erchirion's words are poetic and sound, but Eomer cannot help but think he does his sister a disservice with them. Foreboding seems the wrong word...vexing, perhaps, but only on occasion and only when provoked. But twilight is vexing, too; the end of a day when you are perhaps not ready for it, or the beginning of a night that you do not care to face...

"Ugh, no wonder you are her favorite brother," Amrothos pouts, his voice interrupting Eomer's train of thought. "Erchirion always waxes poetical when praising Thiri."

Erchirion's face pinks but his mother pats his hand again, smiling. "You do your sister a great credit, Erchirion."

"And the other ladies as well," Aragorn agrees. "Though I cannot help but wonder if they will appreciate learning what we have been talking in depth about for such a long time."

Imrahil grimaces, "And we may have been remiss leaving them in the hobbits' care for such a period; they all look rather worn out."

Indeed, Eowyn's face was nearly red with exertion, the princess faring scarcely better, and only the queen looked composed, though whether that was due to more practice or her Elven heritage, Eomer could not say.

Aragorn stands, grinning. "Not that Arwen has ever needed rescuing, but I think I shall offer her an escape now, should she desire one."

"As giddy as a youth and twice as smitten," Gandalf murmurs.

"Can you blame him?" Amrothos asks. "If I had a lady half as fine, I should be able to do naught but gawk at her all day long."

Faramir has risen to join his king, gently plucking Eowyn's hands from a grinning Merry. Eowyn looks utterly relieved at his arrival; Queen Arwen looks bemused at the sudden appearance of her husband, but Pippin gamely releases her, clearly already on the hunt for food.

That leaves Lothiriel alone with Sam Gamgee, both of them smiling but exhausted, neither willing to upset the other by suggesting an end to their dance.

"It is always the quiet ones," Lady Dejah laughs, nodding at Sam, "a week ago, I would not have guessed Master Gamgee to be so light on his feet."

Gimli launches into a story about Sam from their long journey as part of the Fellowship, but still, no one makes a move to rescue either hobbit or princess. Amrothos, the lazy slug, merely leans back in his chair with another mug of ale. Erchirion looks very on the edge of brooding after his impassioned speech and Imrahil seems loathe to leave his wife…

Eomer contemplates following Aragorn and Faramir to rescue 'Lady Twilight' but that choice is taken from him before he can even begin to rise out of his chair. A Gondorian noble has appeared, bowing over the princess's hand and somehow maneuvered himself between her and the hobbit. Both Lothiriel and Sam look affronted at this sudden interruption, but the hobbit's characteristic shyness reasserts itself, and he backs away without a word.

The man bows again, clearly offering himself as a new dance partner.

"Has that bastard no manners?" Eomer growls, surprised at his own irritation.

Legolas follows his gaze, blinking owlishly as the unknown man leads the princess into the first steps of the next dance. "He merely asked the lady for a dance, Eomer."

A lady flushed red in the face, clearly in need of a rest or at the least, a mug of water... _þyrnihtu cwén_ or not, in Rohan even the drunkest of suitors would have realized a woman's need for a breather.

Erchirion suddenly utters a harsh curse, earning a murmured, "Language, my son," from his mother and an affronted look from Imrahil.

"Ada, look at who has claimed Thiri in our inattention," he spits, loathing written into every syllable.

Imrahil looks and groans, the most undignified sound Eomer thinks has ever come from the mouth of his wise friend. "Valar be merciful."

"What is that toad doing here, anyways?" Amrothos demands. "Did he not learn his lesson last time he tried to pay suit to Lothiriel?"

"Who is he?" Eomer asks.

All four Dol Amroth royals share a grimace. "Lord Gwordir, of Linhir."

"A more odious man has yet to exist," Lady Dejah says, in an uncharacteristic show of temper.

"He believes Lothiriel should consider his suit because 'so few others would have her'," Amrothos growls. "His words, not mine, and what's worse: he said them to her face!"

"As if it is not her right to choose whom she marries, as a Princess of Dol Amroth," mutters Erchirion.

"Peace, children, wife," Imrahil sighs. "Our Thiri is no green girl, and there is nothing on this Earth she loves as much as besting someone of an unworthy sort."

Briefly, Eomer wonders if the fact that she so often bested him made him an unworthy sort, but his attention-and that of the rest of the table-is soon claimed by the unlikely couple on the dance floor.

* * *

"You grow lovelier all the time, Lady Lothiriel, if I may say so," Gwordir drones on.

Biting down a show of temper, Lothiriel fights to keep her most neutral expression on her face. "You have already said so, my lord, so I think that makes you capable of the task," she answers. He is too dull to detect the barbs underneath the words, and smiles benignly down at her.

Sweet Elbereth, what she would give to have Sam back again as her partner. She would even choose Master Gimli again, for all that she has to stoop over to reach him, or even Eomer King. At least neither of them gave her the urge to spontaneously commit murder in the middle of the king and queen's wedding feast.

 _Though Eomer did suggest I should harm Amrothos at this exact venue…_

"-and I said to myself, 'Gwordir, my lad, you simply must inquire about the lady's position on needlepoint', and so I am."

Lothiriel blinks, her mind having drifted entirely. "I beg your pardon?"

"Needlepoint," Gwordir says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "My mother quite enjoys it, as I suppose all ladies do."

She does not fight the urge to grit her teeth. "As all ladies also love pretty jewelry, fluffy dogs, and poetry?"

Gwordir seems to begin to realize her irritation. "Well...yes."

Thankfully, the song ends and Lothiriel is able to extract herself from his grip. "Then I fear I am no lady then, my lord, for I prefer a practical gown to a string of diamonds, a lithe hound to a yapping lap dog, and stories of valor to poetry. If you will excuse me."

She offers him a curt curtsey before all but fleeing back to the table that she last spotted her family at. To her surprise, they are all staring at her, along with Mithrandir, Lord Legolas, Gimli, and Eomer King.

"Is something amiss?" She asks, wondering if someone managed to dump wine on the corner of her gown.

Amrothos, abruptly, bursts into laughter. "Oh, sister mine, whatever did you say to him? He has been unable to close his jaw since you walked away!"

"Nothing that wasn't true," she answers pertly, plucking a goblet of wine and downing it in one fell swoop. "Oh, by the Valar, I was thirsty."

"Did he say something offensive?" Erchirion asks. "I will put my hands on him, lord or not, if-"

"Peace, 'Chirion," she soothes. "He merely chose his usual inane, boring topics of conversation. I found that, yet again, I did not care for them."

Her brother gives her a searching look and she squeezes his shoulder until he relents. "I am sorry, I feel guilty that he even had the opportunity to _speak_ to you, let alone claim a dance-"

"Yes, I was wondering what kept you all from sparing me his presence," she teases, dropping into an unoccupied chair between Erchirion and Legolas. For some reason, this causes the men around the table to squirm rather uncomfortably in their seats-exempting Legolas, who Lothiriel cannot ever imagine doing something as undignified as squirming, and Mithrandir, who looks oddly amused.

Naneth, smiling in a way that would not be out of place on Amrothos's face, says, "I am afraid they were distracted by the topic of beauty, Lothiriel."

Rolling her eyes, Lothiriel takes another large sip of wine. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Can you blame us, my lady?" Gimli asks. "With such fair ladies on display after being surrounded only by sweaty, swearing men for so long?"

"Dwarves are not known for smelling like roses on the battlefield either, my friend," Legolas interjects.

"I have heard of no people who do," adds Lothiriel, offering the Elf a wide smile.

That shakes the table of the awkwardness, though Lothiriel cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching her. Scanning the table, she locks eyes with the king of Rohan. Offering him a questioning look, he shakes his head before rising.

"My lady, would you like some more wine?" He asks suddenly.

Thankful that the other occupants of the table-namely her brothers and father-have become occupied with other conversations, Lothiriel stands, nodding. She is perplexed by his odd behavior, but their tentative new friendship bids her to find out what is troubling him so.

For he does look troubled; his drawn face looks rather out of place beside Merry's laughing one, Even Legolas's more reserved expression of amusement further along the table holds more cheer.

She slips her arm into his, suddenly more aware than ever just how much he towers over her. Gwordir is shorter than even Amrothos, and being on his arm is unpleasant at the best of times, despite his height being close to hers. In contrast, her head scarcely clears Eomer's shoulder. Walking arm and arm with the king of Rohan should be tedious, or difficult, but instead it is merely...pleasant.

Realizing she's allowed her thoughts to keep her silent, Lothiriel offers him a small smile. "Thank you for the offer to walk me, my lord. I confess that after spending even a moment in Gwordir's presence often calls for an entire bottle of wine in place of a glass."

This does not draw the smile she's been hoping for; instead, his look only darkens.

"Lady Lothiriel, the truth," he all but growls-merciful Valar, if he does not sound like Eowyn in the mornings in that moment-"what did that damned idiot say to you?"

His vehemence surprises her, but Eowyn has warned her time and time again how over-protective Eomer can be, when someone he considers a friend is threatened.

"He asked me about needlepoint," she answers.

This nearly stops him in his tracks and Lothiriel has to pull on his arm a few times to prompt him into motion again, lest they attract the attention of the court.

"And that is all?" His voice is incredulous.

Rolling her eyes, she grabs two goblets and presses one into his hand. "Yes, Eomer King. What did you think he said?"

Amazingly, two splotches of color appear in his cheeks that she is certain have nothing to do with the large sip of wine he'd just taken. "I...I wasn't certain, but your reaction seemed so strong-"

"You, above anyone, should have learned about the strength of my reactions," she teases. "My temper is near as legendary as yours, my lord."

That coaxes some mirth out of him. "Have your glares been rumored to kill men on the spot?"

Lothiriel shrugs. "That depends on the man. My brothers, likely not. Irritating kings who insinuate I am pestering their sisters, however…"

Finally, a laugh!

Lothiriel is glad of it; now that they have stopped needling each other at every opportunity, she understands what her brothers see in this man, what her father respects, and what Eowyn adores. She would happily call him friend, if they can keep their tempers in check.

He offers her his elbow again and she gratefully accepts.

It's not until later, when she is curled under her covers in her room, that she realizes he'd never answered her question: what had he been so concerned that Gwordir had said?

* * *

It is Imrahil who calls him out, after Lothiriel and Dejah have escorted a drooping Amrothos and a lightly snoring Erchirion to bed. Most of the wedding guests have retired before them-the King and Queen of Gondor included-so now only he, the prince of Dol Amroth, Legolas, and a slumbering Gimli remain, quietly sipping their last drinks.

"My friend," Imrahil murmurs suddenly, "I could not help but notice that Gwordir's dance with my daughter upset you nearly as much as it upset her brothers."

Eomer ignores the pointed look Legolas gives him. "It is not what you think, Imrahil."

"Have you developed the Elvish skill of mind-reading?" Imrahil asks in a droll tone. "For that would be wondrous for the Mark indeed, to have such a skilled king."

If Legolas were a human, Eomer is sure he would have snorted, but as he is an Elf, and likely far too graceful for such noises, he merely chuckles.

"I apologize," Eomer says. "My concern for the princess was out of my respect for her having earned Eowyn's friendship, and due to a number of unsettling remarks I heard at the coronation celebration a few weeks ago."

Gone is the indulgent father and husband; Imrahil sits up suddenly, looking every inch the prince. "Tell me all."

Wincing, Eomer takes a long sip of his ale. Not nearly as strong as Rohirric ale, but a little sweeter; Bema, the hangover he would have tomorrow.

"At the coronation ball," Eomer begins, wishing anyone else in the world could tell Imrahil-his friend! A man he respected! The man who had found Eowyn on Pelennor!-this tale. "Merry and Pippin asked the princess to dance, and she accepted."

"I believe this was after her turn with me, Amrothos, and Aragorn," Legolas adds, looking grave.

Eomer nods; it had been. "And I was standing with my captain, Eothain, away from the dancing. A few Gondorians-minor lords, I suspect, from dress and accent-began remarking on the ladies in the dance, including-"

"My daughter," Imrahil finishes, looking weary. "I suspect I already know what you are going to tell me, Eomer, but continue."

"They remarked that she was darker of complexion than Amrothos, and acted in a manner not befitting Minas Tirith's court." At this, Eomer snorts. "As if that were a bad thing."

"Her manner or the matter of her skin?" Imrahil asks in a new tone.

"Either. Her coloring is something she has no control over and should not be held against her. She is a princess of Gondor, by birth and right, and should be treated as such. As for her manner," he pauses to smile, "the White Lady of Rohan is my sister, Imrahil. A strong will and sharp tongue is nothing new to me."

"And you did not confront these men?" asks Legolas

"I do not think the Rohirric manner of confrontation would have been appropriate at a coronation feast," Eomer admits-though he would have liked to do nothing more. "So I asked her to dance instead. Having the king of Rohan's approval is surely enough to quiet a few jumped-up lords."

At the time, he had not considered it would set tongues wagging, as well.

"And you thought that Lord Gwordir had said something along those lines-disapproving of her manner and complexion-tonight?"

Eomer had almost been _certain_ of it, but instead, he shrugs. "The thought crossed my mind."

"Gwordir is a simpering fool, to be certain, but even he would not insult my daughter to her face. Particularly since he-or rather his mother-would like to be connected to my family," Imrahil sighs, rubbing his eyes.

Lothiriel, married to that spineless toad?

"You disapprove of such a connection," Legolas says, surety in his tone.

Imrahil gapes at the Elf for a moment. "Merciful Valar, yes! Lothiriel could never love such a man, and I would not be content to see her wed any man she does not love."

Privately, Eomer agrees with him. In Rohan, most matches are ones of love. To wed someone you scarcely know, let alone have feelings for...the prospect makes him shudder.

Gimli's sudden awakening startles all of them-even Legolas-and that seems to be the end of the evening.

 _And hopefully the end of that conversation_ , Eomer thinks darkly, as he returns to his rooms. He cannot comprehend these Gondorians; for all they claim to be civilized and superior to their Northern allies, some of their ways seem so...backwards, so illogical.

 _Perhaps Aragorn and his queen will change things_ , he muses.

One can only hope.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Bless Eomer's little heart, he really _does_ care! (Not that he'll admit it, even to himself).

Also, you'll notice in this chapter a certain nickname for Lothiriel that has _big_ meaning in later chapters: Lady Twilight. (The reason for this will become clearer in time, I promise.)

Was Gwordir Collins-like enough for y'all? I admit that the masterpiece that is the 2005 version of _Pride and Prejudice_ had a big influence on not only his characterization, but a lot of our leads' interactions.

Our next chapter takes us back to Rohan, in a much more somber mood.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Guys, thanks again for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites! It really means so much to me :)

Also, you'll notice a slight divergence in canon in this chapter: according to the timeline, Eowyn and Faramir were married at an "unspecified date" (oh, JRR, you have dates for literally everything else, but not the marriage of two of your best characters?) after Theoden's burial, and I've just stretched it out a bit longer. Theoden is buried in July of 3019, and Faramir and Eowyn will be married in the spring of 3020, because frankly, I can't imagine Eowyn being ok with sending Eomer back to Rohan without him being fully settled into the role of king.

Alright, onward to the story! We're making the move back to Rohan in this one, and Lothiriel and Eomer have a discussion of cousins.

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX**

* * *

In great contrast to the celebratory mood of the coronation and Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, the march to Rohan is somber, subdued.

The past few months have been celebration of what the end of the war has meant for Gondor: a new King, the end of the Shadow, a promise of new lives to come.

But now, it is time to reflect on what the end of the war has brought to Rohan.

A new king, to be certain, but also the death of the old one, along with numerous countrymen and horses. On top of the deaths at Helm's Deep and the general slaughter enacted by Saruman's Orcs and the Dunlendings, the death toll was enormous. Not to mention the butchering of livestock and the ruination of fields…

For this reason, it is decided that Theoden King's funeral procession will be a smaller event, a private one, at least as far as the lords of Gondor are concerned. There is, at first, much bickering about this. Many a Gondorian noble is curious about the Mark, even more concerned with keeping their eligible daughters close to the new king.

But in the end, the combined influence of Aragorn, Faramir, and Imrahil is enough to convince them that now is not the time for such a visit. Meduseld could not support so many nobles at once, they insisted, on so short a notice. And the people of Rohan deserved to grieve their losses on their own, in their own ways, without curious Gondorian interlopers.

That is not to say that no Gondorians will attend. The king and queen themselves will go, as will Ada.

"I had hoped for us all to go," he admits the night before the large company is due to depart. "But with the birth of Elphir and Alycia's second child, I am afraid that is not possible."

Yes, Ada and Naneth have become grandparents a second time over, and Erchirion, Amrothos, and Lothiriel are the proud uncles and aunt to a new little girl that her parents have chosen to call Nemiriel.

"So what shall we do, Ada?" Lothiriel asks. Secretly, she hopes to make the journey to Rohan. She worries for Eowyn, who has withdrawn again the prospect of burying her uncle, and for Eomer, who is short-tempered and melancholy in equal turns.

He squeezes her hand; her poor Ada, so long removed from their city. "I cannot miss Theoden King's burial. Eomer has been too good a friend to me, and our debt to him and his kin is great."

"But neither can we both remain away from Dol Amroth," Naneth sighs, resting her head on Ada's shoulder. "We have both been too away long from the city. Elphir will not say so, of course, but he is stretched thin. Alycia needs more help with Alphros and Nemiriel than he can provide while attempting to lead the city. So I shall return home and meet our grandchild, and lift some of the burden from their shoulders."

"Do send him and Aly our love," Lothiriel insists. She misses her sister-in-law dearly; even with Eowyn's friendship, it is often lonely in the court of Minas Tirith, where she feels so ill-liked.

"So the rest of us are away to Rohan?" Amrothos asks, excitement bleeding through. "I have always wanted to see the Riddermark-"

"No, my son," interrupts Ada, smiling fondly. "Erchirion, Lothiriel, and myself are to go to Rohan. You are to remain to Dol Amroth with your mother."

Amrothos's face falls. "But-Ada! I do not understand-Thiri is younger, surely she should remain-"

"Lothiriel is the Lady Eowyn's closest companion in the city," Ada cuts across, frowning slightly. "And as Faramir cannot make the journey himself, I would like her to offer the lady comfort, if she can."

Lothiriel blinks, surprised. She had not known Faramir would not be going! Though, thinking on it, it makes sense; both Steward and King cannot leave Minas Tirith unattended, and Aragorn would not miss Theoden King's burial.

"Of course, Ada," she murmurs, "I would not see Eowyn suffer, especially in Faramir's absence."

"But surely Erchirion should return home instead!" Amrothos nearly yells, irritation plain in the stiffness of his shoulders. "He is the second son-"

"And the best horseman among my children," Ada interrupts again. "Amrothos, this is not a slight to you. You will protect your mother on the journey home, and when you arrive in Dol Amroth, I have made the arrangements with Elphir to you take up the leadership of the fleet."

 _That_ shuts her brother up and he gawks at Ada for a moment, not looking wholly unlike a codfish.

"The fleet?" He asks, voice high. "Me?"

Erchirion's eyebrows have shot up into his hairline, but wisely he chooses not to comment. Lothiriel can guess what he is thinking. Amrothos is an expert sailor, it's true, better than perhaps anyone in the family and certainly the majority of the other Dol Amroth nobles, but he is young-just five and twenty-and still impetuous. Rash, their youngest brother is, and mischievous. Not qualities generally sought out in fleet captains.

Still, Ada must have his reasons, else he would not decide such a thing.

"Well, Amrothos," Naneth says, breaking the silence. "Aren't you going to thank your father?"

"T-thank you, Ada," he manages to stutter. "This-it's-an honor, truly."

"Yes, it is," their father agrees. "Make me proud, my son."

But that was days ago, now.

Lothiriel misses Naneth already. It has been years since they've gone longer than three days in each other's presence, and despite Arwen and Eowyn travelling with them, she feels very alone and very, very female.

Thankfully, the hobbits have come along too, and are the few people who manage to remain cheery despite the overall sober mood of the party.

"I can scarcely complain," Merry admits during their luncheon break, "for the last time I made this journey, we were speeding across the country, and I had not the time to appreciate its beauty."

And beautiful the Anorian region is; the land is flatter here, easy to travel upon, even with the bier of Theoden King and the few carts carrying the few men who have not fully recovered-or those who can no longer ride.

Some of these men had been her patients in the Houses, and so Lothiriel takes time to greet them, to inquire after their health.

"I'll be alright once I get used to having just the one arm, milady," one of the men-Fastred, is his name, and she knows he has a wife and two small children waiting on him in the Mark-says. They're remarkably resilient, these men of Rohan, and Lothiriel cannot help but admire them.

She tells Ada as much, and it makes him smile. "Perhaps you will find yourself a husband among the horse-lords, little flower," he chuckles. "I must admit, I think you much more suited to a man of the Mark than any Gondorian nobleman I can think of."

"Ada!" She cries, mortified.

"I agree, Thiri," Erchirion says, a worrisome twinkle in his eye. "And besides, the men are already half in love with you as it is."

"They are only kind because I fuss over them," she insists, trying to hide her flushed cheeks behind her cup.

"Oh, my daughter," Ada says. "If only that were true."

* * *

Eomer is in a mood.

Understandably, as they are carrying Theoden King back to be buried and it is the first time the real weight of his new kingship has fully settled on his shoulders; in Gondor, he was a visiting King, and it was acceptable that he was less vital and important than Aragorn, less experienced than Imrahil, less even-keel than Faramir.

But now, on the road, heading towards his own country and his own people, all he can think of is his ineptitude, his failings. He was raised to be a marshal. A commander of men, a leader in battle...but not a diplomat, not a peacemaker. He has not the temperament to be king, nor the knowledge of the land and its lords. He is only Eomer, Eomund's son, and for so long it had been Theodred who would be king. Theodred, who would wear the crown well with all its trappings and titles-

"Eomer, if you stare any harder at that rock, I think it may be persuaded to catch fire," comes Aragorn's soothing voice.

Giving his friend a dark glare, he answers, "I am not in the mood for quips, Aragorn."

"You haven't been in the mood for much of anything," Gimli says, appearing on his left. "Hence the glaring at poor innocent rocks."

"Would you rather I glare at you instead?"

"I think I am a tad bit sturdier than those rocks, horse master," the Dwarf responds, unfazed. "Glare all you like."

Groaning, Eomer pulls at his hair. "I do not like to feel...useless."

"You are carrying the body of your beloved uncle and king home, to the people that loved and respected him," Legolas says wisely. "That would hardly be considered a useless pursuit."

They do not understand, _cannot_ understand. Aragorn, even with his years in the wilderness, had been born to be a king. Legolas is a prince, Gimli is a venerated warrior amongst his own people-there is no uncertainty there, for any of them.

"Of all the many things that you are, Eomer King, useless is not one of them," Legolas offers again. With his youthful looks, it is easy to think the Elf young. But he has walked Middle Earth for countless lives of Men, and his council is often wise. "I have seen many kinds of kings, and many different kinds of men. Some make good men and terrible kings; some make good kings and terrible men. You shall be the rare kind who is good at both."

Feeling slightly comforted, Eomer accepts the water-jug from Aragorn's outstretched hand. "Thank you, Legolas."

The Elf merely shrugs. "It is no great thing to tell the truth."

The companions sit in comfortable silence for a while, the crackle of the fire filling the empty air. There is the murmur of the other people in their caravan around them, but no one dares disturb their circle, filled at is it is with kings and great heroes of the war.

"Where is the White Lady?" Gimli asks, suddenly. "I had thought to find her here with you, Eomer, and beg some soup from her."

 _That_ can only be a lie, for his sister is skilled at many things, but cooking is not one of them. It does make him think; where _is_ Eowyn?

They have both been absorbed in their own grief the past few days, both grieving Theoden and their lost kinsman. But his grief is angrier than hers, more raw, where Eowyn's has taken an inward bend the further they get from Minas Tirith. She has left her heart behind with the Steward, that he well knows, and parting from him had pained her. But there is much to do before she can return to Emyn Arnen for her wedding in the spring. Eomer, and Rohan itself, will require much of her. And he has been only thinking of himself and the trials he will face-nothing of Eowyn, and how returning to Edoras may stir up less than happy memories.

 _Curse Wormtongue to the deepest hell_ , he thinks darkly, _I should have torn him to pieces when I had the chance._

Cursing his own selfish melancholy, he starts to rise to look for her, only to be caught in a firm grip from Aragorn.

"Peace, brother," his fellow king says, "she is well attended."

He nods towards the group's right. There is another fire there, in front of the king and queen of Gondor's tents. Eowyn is there, sitting on the ground, with the queen beside her. Behind his sister sits the Lady Lothiriel, calmly brushing her fair hair as if it was the most normal occupation in the world.

The queen says something and the sorrow is somewhat lifted from Eowyn's face; she smiles, looking over her shoulder at her friend.

The Gondorian princess abruptly stops her brushing, suddenly brandishing the thing like a weapon in Eowyn's direction. All three ladies burst into laughter, and the sound echoes around the camp, drawing the attention of every man in the vicinity.

"I wonder what they speak of," Aragorn muses, eyes clearly locked on his lady-love.

"You may sit here and wonder, if that is your wish," Gimli says, standing, "but I intend to go find out."

"Dwarves," Eomer mutters, but without any fire behind it.

"I suspect he has the right of it," Aragorn says, ignoring him. He stands as well before offering Eomer a hand. "Besides, Arwen has something that may help cheer you."

"Tea?"

"Elvish mead."

"Your wife is an interesting woman, Aragorn."

Aragorn grins. "Ah, if you only knew the half of it."

* * *

Lothiriel is still tempted to swat Eowyn with the brush for her last comment-Rohirric sweetheart _indeed_ , as if she had been alone with any man during their time travelling to form such an attachment-but that would likely mean swatting her queen as well. As comfortable as she has become with Arwen Undomiel, hitting the highest ranking lady in all of Gondor, even in jest, is something not even her supposed Harad blood could explain. Not to mention the headache it would likely give poor Ada.

But mostly she is too glad to see real happiness on her friend's face once more to feel any true irritation. Poor Eowyn, so torn between mourning her uncle and missing her beloved. Lothiriel does not mind bearing the brunt of a harmless joke if it can make the White Lady of Rohan smile.

"You are simply horrid," she tells Eowyn, who is still slumped against her shoulder, shaking in helpless laughter. "And you, my lady! I would have expected better from you, then to tease me so."

"Elves are permitted a sense of humor as well," Arwen answers regally, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Legolas is considered quite funny amongst our kinsman."

Lothiriel cannot help but pull a face at that and the queen's musical laugh joins Eowyn's again.

"You three have been hoarding all of the mirth around your fire," comes Gimli's voice, rich with teasing. "It's quite unkind of you."

"Then join us, and be merry," the queen graciously offers, patting a spot beside her on the ground.

Gimli eagerly complies. "Now, dear ladies, I must know what was so amusing just now. Your laughter could have woken the dead!"

There's a sudden pause as the Dwarf seems to realize what he's said, and where he's said it. Beneath his bushy beard, Lothiriel can see his cheeks flush. Of course, the kings of Gondor and Rohan have chosen the worst possible moment to arrive; Eomer fixes Gimli with a glare so strong that a lesser man-or Dwarf-would have certainly feared for their life.

Eowyn stands suddenly, startling them all by giving her brother's stomach a strong thump. Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at the sudden disgruntled expression that crosses the young king's face. Aragorn chuckles as well, settling down on the other side of his queen with ease.

"It is a common expression, Eomer," Eowyn hisses, shaking a finger in his face. "Now, sit and be pleasant, or take your foul temper elsewhere."

"No respect for your king," he grumbles, but his earlier fury has vanished. Eowyn rolls her eyes and returns to her previous seat. Eomer drops down beside her and accepts a glass of mead from Arwen.

"What were you discussing that caused such mirth?" Aragorn asks, returning to Gimli's original question.

"It was nothing of consequence, my lord," Lothiriel says, hoping that Eowyn and Arwen will support her.

Her hopes are in vain, for Arwen smiles again. "I would not call a Rohirric suitor 'nothing of consequence', Lothiriel."

There is a sudden splutter; someone has just spit out their mead! She scarcely has a chance to wonder who it was before Gimli is badgering her for an explanation and Eowyn is laughing herself senseless in Lothiriel's ear.

"My queen is teasing me," Lothiriel assures the Dwarf, "there is no suitor."

"I do not think Leofa would agree with you, _min_ _drút_ ," smirks Eowyn.

"Leofa does mean 'beloved' in the language of the Mark," Aragorn says knowledgeably, eyes twinkling in a way that most _certainly_ bodes ill. "Perhaps his name has predicted his fate?"

Lothiriel can only gape at her king in horror. Gimli joins in, adding, "Is there something about this rider that has set you off of him? Has he pressed his suit too ardently? I would be happy to knock some sense into the lad-"

"Surely that would be my role, as his king," interjects Eomer, voice low. "If a rider of mine has made you uncomfortable, my lady, I would have you say so."

Eowyn has slumped over again, laughing so hard her entire body shakes. Arwen, while more composed, looks as amused as her husband. Lothiriel wants to tear at her hair: miscommunication was about to cost poor Leofa his life!

"No, my lords, Leofa has done nothing-he is not my suitor, nor will he ever be," she manages to say, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"So you have set your heart on another?" Asks Aragorn, sounding far too innocent.

Lothiriel groans. "No, my lord. But Leofa would not be an acceptable choice for me in any case."

"Why not?" Gimli asks.

"Because he is-or rather was-my patient in the Houses," she finally says. "And on top of that, he is but five and ten."

There's a moment while everyone digests this-Eowyn's laughter has not abated, and Lothiriel wonders what her brother's reaction would be if she were to strangle her-and then the rest of the circle joins her, dissolving into mirth.

"Well played, Lady Arwen, well played," Gimli is chortling.

"I could not agree more," Aragorn laughs, settling an arm around his wife's waist.

Lothiriel feels stung, all of a sudden. It was a harmless joke, made in jest with the intention of cheering Eowyn, but it...hurts suddenly, that the thought of someone paying suit to her is such a laughable idea. She knows very well of her faults, and that it will take a man of exceptional character to love her for them, not despite them. Sometimes it feels as if there is no such man, and nor will there ever be. She will remain Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, sharp of tongue and quick of wit, aunt to all and mother to none.

Eowyn senses the change in her posture and her laughter dies away. Lothiriel resists the urge snatch her hand back from her friend's questioning one; she is tired, and in a foreign place, and her sillier emotions are getting the best of her.

"I think we have had enough mirth at the lady's expense," comes Eomer's voice. "Let us speak of other things."

Lifting her eyes, she finds Eomer looking at her, understanding in his expression. She mouths a quiet 'thank you', to which he nods. The hobbits soon join them, claiming the group's attention. The rest of the night is much more pleasant, though the sudden hurt at her friends' laughter does not fade completely, lingering around Lothiriel's heart like a bruise.

* * *

The plains of the Riddermark are as beautiful as he remembers them. He is not sure why he expected that to change, along with everything else, but they have not. They are as green as they were in his youth, when he had just learned to ride a horse and Theodred was still teaching him to fight with a wooden sword.

More brother than cousin, had Theodred of Rohan been, and Eomer misses him.

"Shall we continue on?" Asks one of his guard. "Sire?"

"Yes," he says, voice gruff. "Move out."

The guard-Cadda, of Snowbourne-nods and passes along the message. The journey has been slow going, with the excess of people and Theoden King's bier, but now they have passed into the Mark. It seems easier to breathe, now that he has seen that the country still stands. Logically, he knew it would be, but in the face of Pelennor, Morannon...any evil seemed possible.

There is the sudden thunder of hooves as someone approaches; he expects Aragorn, perhaps even Eowyn, but instead he hears a greeting in the princess's slightly accented Westron. His guards allow her to pass and she brings her gelding up beside Firefoot.

Usually, his horse does not tolerate strangers-neither human nor horses-well, but Nipredhil is a beautiful mare, which is enough to stay Firefoot's temper. The princess rides well, from obvious practice. She even rides in the standard style, not attempting that side-saddle nonsense that so many Gondorian ladies seemed to favor, despite her skirts.

"Eomer King," she says, "may I say something?"

Preparing for a lecture on his brooding, or perhaps some inane commentary on the beauty of the country, he grudgingly nods.

"Thank you," is what he gets instead. "Last night, I-I do not know how you knew that I was uncomfortable, but you spared me from having to embarrassing my queen by letting her know that she was part of the cause."

Eomer barely resists twisting in his saddle to look at her; she could not have surprised him more than if she had hit him over the head with a skillet.

"They should not have let the joke go on that long," he says. "It was unkind."

"But not, I think, intentional," the girl defends. "Arwen is not human, and is unaccustomed to human hurts."

A fair assessment and a likely one; the Lady Arwen is kind, and wise, but has not been a young woman in many years, despite her looks.

"I did only what I would have done for Eowyn, had she been in the same predicament," Eomer says. "A brother knows enough about what may hurt a young woman's heart."

They ride in silence for a time, and for a moment, he wonders if he has embarrassed her. It is true, he guessed what ailed her based off of Eowyn's behavior at that age. Laughing when discussing a girl's suitors would be unpleasant for any woman, especially as one as proud as Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. But that had not been why he spoke up. Her face had been so sad, so devoid of its usual fire and challenge...the words had been out of his mouth before he had been able to stop them.

"And what of your heart, my lord?" She asks suddenly, startling him. Firefoot whinnies his displeasure at the sudden clench of his thighs.

 _His_ heart? Currently, beating a bit faster because of the fright she'd given him. But he knows that is not what she meant.

"Meaning?" Eomer asks.

"I have come to know you well enough to know that something is weighing on you, my lord," is her direct response. "And perhaps I am not the person you would choose to reveal your heart's hurts to, but my mother has always said that pain shared is pain halved, not doubled."

Imrahil had said something similar to him at the beginning of their trek to the Mark, and he wonders if Lady Dejah had put him up to it, or if the long-married couple were so in sync that they followed similar thought patterns without being aware of it. The thought makes him strangely happy and sad; happy, that his friend has been blessed with such a marriage, and sad that his own parents never got to live long enough to fall into such patterns.

"Your mother is a wise woman, my lady."

"She is," and there's a note of wistfulness there. "I miss her already, though it's scarcely been a week since I've seen her. Is that not strange?"

"I wouldn't know," it comes out gruffer than he means for it to, but it has been a long year-a long life-and he has never been good at being soft. "My mother has been dead for years."

The princess's face is stricken at that and abruptly, he feels guilty. She is trying to be kind to him, trying to offer whatever help she can, and here he is, spitting venom at her.

"I am sorry-" She starts to say but he stops her.

"No, I am sorry. I do not...there have not been many people I could truly trust in the past year, and I find it...difficult, to express things I would rather not discuss."

Surprisingly, she nods at that. "I know a little of what that feels like, my lord. To be in a position of power is to be strong, or to at least seem to be strong, no matter what is going on inside your own head."

She does not understand, not fully, but it is enough to draw the words from him. "I miss my cousin. He was born for this role, trained for it...I worry that I will not do his memory justice."

"You speak of Prince Theodred," the princess says. "Eowyn has told me a little of him, but most of what I know of him comes from _my_ cousin."

"Faramir?" He did not think the two men had met, though they were certainly closer in age than he and Theodred had been.

"No," and the wistful tone is back, "my other cousin. Boromir."

Now _there_ was a great leader of Men. Eomer had met the man a few times, years before, when relations between Rohan and Gondor were not so strained. He was of an age with Theodred, and just as broad and strong as any Rohir. He had been very popular with the lasses, for the little it had mattered, and a more stout-hearted friend one could not have asked for.

"I recall them getting along very well," he says, "though my own interaction with your cousin was fairly brief."

"He was very fond of Theodred," she confirms. "I think they saw something of themselves in one another."

He wonders, suddenly, how much she knows of Boromir and Theodred's relationship. The princess is younger than he is, and there had been a good number of years between himself and his cousin...but it would not be unreasonable for her to know the truth. Faramir likely did, and Faramir is as close to her as a brother...

"He did not want to be steward," the princess says suddenly, unbidden. "Always, he thought Faramir was the more natural choice, the brother better suited to the role."

"Faramir will be a wonderful steward," he says tentatively, not sure where this vein of conversation is heading.

She turns her head towards him, eyes holding his. "Faramir was no more born to be steward than you were to be king, my lord. And yet you think him able to the task."

"I-"

"You are being too harsh on yourself," she interrupts, and there is the prickly princess, hidden beneath her layers of concern, "much as Faramir is, and I think neither Boromir nor Theodred would thank either of you for it."

He is torn between outrage and the sinking feeling that she is right. Theodred would _not_ appreciate, nor approve of, the doubts he has let rattle his confidence so.

"At the very least," ah, she isn't finished, "everything I know about your cousin and your uncle tells me they would not have left the fate of the country they loved so well in the hands of someone who they did not trust. And I cannot think of a higher recommendation than that."

Bema above, she could argue even his worst councilors into the dirt! Briefly, he toys with the idea of letting her have a go at old Torfrith, the worst of the lot, before brushing it aside. It was unlikely she would ever see the bad side of the old badger, being a visiting princess of generally good manners and no small supply of beauty.

Even if he does not feel ready to the task, Theoden King thought him so, and Theodred would have supported him through Mordor itself, if the need had arisen. The princess has a point.

"It seems I should be the one thanking you, my lady," he murmurs. "I had not thought of it that way."

"Originality is simply a pair of fresh eyes," she says, a tiny bit of mischief in her tone.

"Your mother, again?" He guesses.

"Merely an old Dol Amrothian phrase," is the response, laughter clear in her voice now, "but Naneth will be pleased you thought she came up with it."

She drops back to where her father and brother are riding a few moments later, still smiling.

His homeland is before him, his friends behind him, and the sun still shines. Eomer suddenly finds it very hard to be anything other than content.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Look at them, getting along! Definitely not so prickly now ;)

Up next is Theoden's burial, Eomer's coronation, and an introduction of various aspects of Rohan's culture (which will be explained in depth in the next chapter)

 _min_ _drút_ : friend, beloved one


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:** Thanks again for all the awesome reviews, you guys! And many warm welcomes to those of you who have followed, favorited, or put this story on your story alert list. I'm so glad you're enjoying it!

Getting into this chapter, we delve a bit deeper into Rohan's customs. Since it's pretty much common knowledge that Rohan is a kind of pre-Roman Celtic hybrid, I've borrowed a few traditions from a number of Celtic cultures-per my dear friend's advice and help, as she and her family are from Ireland and have been for centuries-but I am sure I'm not quite historically accurate. This is in no way meant to offend anyone, and if anyone has any advice or suggestions to make Rohan's culture more true-to-life, I welcome PMs and comments! I'll explain more in the post-chapter author's notes, as I don't want to spoil anyone ahead of time :)

And now, forward! We're meeting a few more characters in this chapter who will become more important as time goes on, Lothiriel gets a bit of a culture shock, and Eomer is officially crowned as Rohan's king.

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

* * *

Edoras is packed to the gills with people, but Lothiriel cannot help but like the city, its great hall, and its people. Minas Tirith is grander, to be sure, but so cold, so...distant. Edoras, by contrast, is young and small, but so filled with life that it's a wonder that the buildings themselves don't move.

It reminds her of home, though Dol Amroth does not resemble Rohan's capital in the slightest. Edoras is far from the sea, its buildings made of wood and thatched roofs, the Mark's love of horses etched into every beam, every stone. Dol Amroth is much like Minas Tirith in looks, but not in attitude; in that, Edoras and her home city are the same. Welcoming, warm, _alive_!

Eowyn looks relieved when she says as much. "I had worried you would think it lacking," she admits, picking at her gown, "for Rohan is much less grand than Gondor-"

"Rohan is much younger than Gondor," Lothiriel interrupts, pulling Eowyn's hands away from the loose thread. "And I like it just the way it is."

Eowyn has taken the mantle of Meduseld's leading lady well, divvying up the rooms so that all of the guests have somewhere to sleep, ensuring those who cannot speak Rohirric are within arm's length of someone to translate for them, even bullying the advisers to give Eomer some peace until after Theoden is buried.

"Damned nosy men," Eowyn huffs, bustling about the hall, "the funeral is tomorrow and still they pester my brother about finding himself a queen! As if there are not more pressing matters to attend to!"

"Has he someone in mind?" Lothiriel asks. She would not have thought so, but if his advisors are pressing him, perhaps there had been someone before the War…

Eowyn stops abruptly, offering Lothiriel a strange, sly smile over her shoulder. "No. Not yet, anyways."

Lothiriel does not have time to ponder her friend's strange response for very long. Life for royalty is much more active in Edoras than even Dol Amroth, and princess or not, every available hand is needed. She hardly minds the activity; being idle has never sat well with her, even if the work is unfamiliar. She's certainly never been asked to help beat the dust out of a particularly sturdy tapestry in Dol Amroth, but she almost regrets that, for all the fun she has while doing it.

There are a good number of widowed women and orphaned girls living at Edoras in the wake of the War, so she is not short on company or chatter. One of the younger widows-Lisswyn, Eothain's sister-has declared herself Lothiriel's keeper when Eowyn is otherwise occupied.

"My brother is very fond of you, my lady," she says, a shy smile playing about her lips. "Were he not already wed, I would not have been surprised if he tried to chase you himself."

Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at that; Eothain was a fine man, and one of the fastest friends she'd ever acquired. He was also utterly smitten with his wife of seven years, who was expecting their second child. "I am flattered. Between you and Eowyn, I think I shall find myself with more Rohirric swains than I know what to do with."

"There are only a few options of what to do with one's swain," Cwenhild, Gamling's wife, chuckles. "I wouldn't think things were so different in Gondor as all that."

Blushing as the other women laugh, Lothiriel thinks she understand where Eowyn's frank manner comes from. She knows part of it is the blush of newness, part of it the relief to see the end of the fighting, but she suspects she could come to love this place-and its people-almost as much as her own.

* * *

The funeral was as horrible as Eomer expected it to be.

Oh, it goes well, by everyone's standards. Theoden King is properly mourned-sincerely mourned-and Eowyn's hard work to ensure the ceremony is as grand as it should be pays off. So many people have come to see their former King buried that there is scarcely any room for them to carry the bier down the winding path.

His uncle's grave is beside Theodred's.

Eomer hadn't seen his cousin buried. He should have been there, to help carry his brother and dearest friend to the mounds, should have been there to protect Eowyn from Wormtongue's lingering gaze, to comfort his uncle-

"Oh, _helle_ ," comes a familiar voice. "I thought I might find you here."

Blearily, Eomer looks up from the flagon of ale to find Eothain's concerned face. "Leave me be," he manages to grumble out before taking another long draught.

"My King is in distress and asks me to leave him," Eothain says instead, settling down beside him in Firefoot's stall. "What kind of captain would I be if I obeyed?"

"A good one," Eomer growls; he had come here to be alone, away from even those he loves most. They're too much of a reminder of how he has failed, how he could fail again-

"Perhaps," murmurs Eothain, "but I would become a terrible friend in the process. King or not, you have always been my friend first, Eomer, son of Eomund."

They sit in silence for a while, until the flagon is finished. Eothain helps him to his feet and when it becomes apparent that Eomer can no longer walk on his own, throwing an arm around his shoulders like they used to do when they were green boys on their first tavern runs.

"Not th' main hall," Eomer manages to slur. Eowyn would scold him, and rightly so, and Imrahil would likely think him the Northern barbarian his countrymen have made him out to be, Gimli would laugh, and the princess-

"The princess is more understanding than you think," Eothain says, something like amusement in his voice. Eomer had forgotten, how often thoughts turn to words after a good flagon of Rohirric ale.

His captain manages to get him inside without further interruption, though Eowyn is unsurprisingly waiting for him at the door to his rooms, a pained expression on her face.

"Was he where you thought he'd be?" She asks, opening the door for them.

"Paying Firefoot a visit, of course," is Eothain's response.

"And completely neglecting his guests in the process," Eowyn grumbles. "If you weren't so drunk, I would hit you over the head for frightening me like that, but I think your hangover tomorrow will be punishment enough."

" _Sweostor_ ," Eomer groans.

She softens a little at that, coming to sit beside him where Eothain has rather unceremoniously dumped him on his bed. She strokes his hair back from his face. "I know you are hurting, you great lug, but it is not your pain to be carried alone. It is mine, too. And our people's. Shutting yourself away from those who would grieve with you does nobody any good."

"When did you get so wise?" Brave, she has always been, and strong, but _wise_ is something he would have been hard pressed to call his brash, beautiful little sister.

She smiles, soft, almost secretive. "Someone once gave me very similar advice."

 _Her Steward_ , he thinks, certain of it.

"Sleep now, _déorest_ ," Eowyn murmurs. "You have to return to proper kingly behavior tomorrow."

 _The coronation. The mearcung gescrif_ …

Groaning, he buries his face in his pillow, and wills the outside world away.

* * *

She is still awake when Eowyn returns, looking considerably less tense than she has in the hours following Theoden King's burial. They are sharing a room, for both practical and pleasant reasons; practical, because Edoras does not have enough rooms for every visitor to be given their own, and pleasant, because Lothiriel has always wanted a sister, and Eowyn is nearly as dear to her now as sweet Alycia.

"Did Eothain find him?" She asks, setting aside her book.

Eowyn nods. "Him, and the flagon of ale he managed to steal from the kitchen. I am going to have to have a word with Merthwyn. She's doted on him since he was a boy, and he can sweet-talk her into nearly anything, especially concerning food and drink. He is the king now, he can hardly afford to vanish into the stables every time something upsets him."

"I think this is something of an exception," Lothiriel says. "And I think you would have liked nothing better than to join him, instead of having to play hostess."

Eowyn sighs. "You are right. But he should have considered that-I am not a queen, just the king's sister, and I will not always be here for him to rely on."

The guilt in her friend's voice is overwhelming. "Oh, Eowyn," Lothiriel says, realization dawning on her. "He would not want that, surely. I do not know your brother as well as some, but I know him well enough to know he would never want to deny you your happiness, even if that happiness will take you far away."

Eowyn has turned away from her, but Lothiriel suspects she hears a distinct sniffle.

"Bema, I have _never_ been one for tears," she hisses, confirming Lothiriel's suspicions. "But I think of him, alone, after everyone has gone and I have become a lady of Gondor, and I...I worry."

"Worrying is not always an ill thing," Lothiriel soothes, stepping over to drape a blanket around Eowyn's shoulders. "It is usually an unfortunate side effect of loving someone well."

Eowyn manages a laugh at that. "I suppose you have had much experience with it."

"At least you have just the one brother," Lothiriel agrees, teasing, "I have the three, and a far too noble cousin on top of that."

A more wistful expression crosses Eowyn's face. "Faramir is the best of men."

"I have always thought so," Lothiriel agrees. "And I am glad you do, too."

Eowyn shakes herself, smiling slightly. "Tears and love-struck declarations in the span of minutes. I scarcely recognize myself."

"You are Eowyn, daughter of Theodwyn, sister to a currently intoxicated king, the famed slayer of the Witch King of Angmar, and my very dearest cousin's beloved," Lothiriel says with surety. "And what are friends for, if not to know our true selves?"

"You are more than a mere friend," Eowyn says, pinching her arm lightly. "Kin, you will soon be."

"Cousins," Lothiriel agrees happily. "Though I must admit, sister feels like the more appropriate term."

Eowyn smiles again, that strange, sly smile from a few days ago. "In time, perhaps."

And Lothiriel intends to ask what she could mean by that, but Eowyn makes noises about needing rest for tomorrow-there is a sacred ritual that must occur before the coronation, and she'll be needed to help prepare the mead and bread for the actual ceremony-and so she allows herself to be shepherded into bed.

* * *

He has no one to thank but himself for the pounding hangover that greets him in the morning. What had he been thinking, leaving Eowyn to run the hall, ignoring his guests and friends, hiding in the stables like an overgrown child?

"Not your brightest moment, Eomer King," Eothain says, sounding far too chipper. "But I think everyone can be persuaded to forgive you after the _mearcung gescrif_. Especially once the ale is opened."

"Don't speak to me of ale," Eomer groans.

"Mead, then," his captain chirps. "Don't forget, you have to down the whole goblet before they can put the crown on that straw head of yours."

Groaning again, he contemplates dunking his head in the wash bowl to help alleviate the headache. There is a knock at the door before he can do so; the sages have come, to escort him to the _héafodstede_.

He will receive his king's marks today, something he never expected. Bema knew just getting the mark of a marshal of the Mark had hurt enough; a king's marks were doubly intricate. They bind the man to the Mark from the day he becomes king and into the afterlife. He'd seen his uncle's markings as a small child and marveled at them, and secretly not envied Theodred for the curling marks that would eventually be on his back, his torso.

 _But he is gone now, unmarked as king_ , a voice in his head whispers. _That title now belongs to you._

The _héafodstede_ is on the back side of Edoras, facing towards the mountains. It was placed there because of the view; a king must know what he is agreeing to protect, after all. This is not a public ceremony, like the coronation. The sun has scarcely risen and the majority of the city still sleeps. Even the sages do not come into the low stone building; only kings and the men who give them their marks. His _oræfta_ is called Cenric, son of Baldric. A green boy, by all accounts, but one of the most talented in his craft in an age.

"Eomer King," he greets, bowing low. "Would you like to approve of the design before I begin?"

He nods and the boy spreads a scroll across the table.

 _There will be so much ink_ , is the first thought that comes into his head, but the second is less of a thought and more of a general feeling of appreciation. Cenric truly was talented. Every king's marks were different, with a few basic elements-Medulsed dwelled between the shoulder blades, a reminder of the weight of the kingship, Bema's horn on the shoulder of one's sword arm, to keep the god's guidance in matters of battle. As a marshal, Eomer already has the traditional stallion around his navel, though he notes a few new lines Cenric has proposed, connecting the horse-a symbol of strength-to the marking that will go above his heart.

The symbol the boy has chosen for that distinction surprises him. "The sun?" He asks, incredulous.

The boy flushes, scrubbing a hand behind his neck. "Yes, sire. I thought it fitting."

"How so?"

"You are the start of a new line of Eorl; a beginning, like the sunrise. You arrived at Helm's Deep with the sun. Some of the common-folk have even started to call you Eomer _Éadig_ , and what better blessing is there than years of sunshine and prosperity?"

He stares at Cenric, eyes wide. He has been king in name, if not in ceremony, for scarcely a few months. Surely he cannot have amassed that level of devotion in such a time? He has done _nothing_ to warrant such praises.

"Sire," comes the boy's voice again, something like sympathy in his eyes. "Our people have a long memory, and you have been fighting for them-for our land-for many years. Is it so surprising that they love you for it?"

"Yes," he admits, the word tumbling out of his mouth unbidden. "But I will try to be the king they deserve."

And with that, he pulls his shirt over his head and lies down on the long wooden table.

The _mearcung gescrif_ has begun.

* * *

"Ceremonial tattoos?" Lothiriel asks in a low murmur. The entirety of the city has been assembled in front of Medulsed for nearly an hour now, waiting for their new king to emerge. The reason for his delay-and day-long absence-and been briefly mentioned by a frazzled looking Lisswyn, whose usually calm two year old was fussy and ill-tempered in the late afternoon heat.

"An old tradition of the Mark, practiced since the time of Eorl King," Legolas confirms.

"We have something similar, under the Mountain," Gimli adds. "Though we aren't so squeamish about marking our faces as well."

 _Rather a blessing, that_ , Lothiriel thinks. Marking one's skin sounds painful enough, but to put needles into one's face sounds positively _horrific_.

Gimli's sudden chuckles remind her how very open her face is and she flushes.

"Now, now, my lady," he teases, "I think you'll find our young horse master will remain as handsome as ever. No ink to mar that face of his, at least, not in the Mark."

"I was only thinking of how painful it all sounds," she says, trying not to will the blush Gimli's implications had brought away. Of course the king of Rohan was handsome; she had thought him irritable for the majority of their acquaintance, but she was far from _blind_. But it was a vague sort of appreciation, to be sure. She thought many men of Rohan handsome, as they likely found her dark looks intriguing, being so different from their own.

"How painful what sounds?" Ask Erchirion, appearing suddenly at her side.

She opens her mouth to answer-certainly before Gimli can, and embarrass her again-when the sudden blow of a horn stops her, as well as much of the other noise of the crowd.

" _Eomer Cynnig becymeþ_!"

The doors swing open, revealing the king.

A tiny _eep_ of surprise forces its way passed Lothiriel's lips; no one had mentioned-!

The king is shirtless, the new markings of his rule etched into his skin in green and red. There is a horse on his stomach-vaguely, Lothiriel recalls Eowyn mentioning its placement as a symbol of strength-and a large sun over his heart. People crane to make out the markings on his back as well. She would have thought that it was the armor that made him look so large, but no, his shoulders truly are that broad. There are appreciative murmurs as he continues his walk down the stairs to where Eowyn stands, waiting to offer him the mead, representing the lifeblood of the country, of its people.

" _Thuio, mellon,_ " Legolas whispers suddenly and Lothiriel starts, releasing a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding in.

The king seems largely unaffected by it all, his face composed, his walk steady. Surely, it must have hurt, to have your skin poked and dyed, but looking at Eomer's face, one would never know.

 _He looks every inch the king_ , she thinks suddenly. Today, even Aragorn would look diminished beside him.

" _Westu hal, Eomer Cynnig_ ," comes Eowyn's voice. Her hands do not shake as she offers him the goblet, though the whole city seems to hold its breath.

Eomer accepts the cup, pausing to turn to face the crowd. Somehow, he downs the goblet in one fluid motion. The crowd roars, not unlike at Aragorn's coronation, and Gandalf settles the golden circlet on Eomer's head.

" _Eomer Eadig_!" Someone yells, and the cheer carries.

"What does that mean?" Lothiriel wonders aloud.

"The blessed," Legolas answers. "And I believe he shall be."

* * *

Lothiriel finds herself back in her and Eowyn's shared room, feeling strangely unsettled. The blue dress she had brought for the feast seems suddenly too childish, too foreign. She already stands out so much amongst the fair-skinned and blonde-haired Rohirric women, and suddenly, she finds that she does not want to.

Eowyn appears, in a flurry of activity. "Oh, good, Lothiriel, you are here."

Shaking off her strange melancholy, Lothiriel offers her friend a smile. "You did wonderfully today, Eowyn."

Eowyn flaps her hands at the compliment. "I did nothing, merely my duty. Eomer deserves all of the praise, and perhaps Cenric. I have never seen designs so intricate!"

Lothiriel can only nod in mute agreement; she has never seen any sort of mark before, but even her untrained eye had thought the tattoos to be beautiful.

 _Not unlike the man who bears them_ , a little voice whispers, sounding not wholly unlike Alycia. A ridiculous thought, but then she has not eaten since the noon meal. She is just hungry; that must be it.

"-and I would not ask, but everyone is so busy getting ready-Lothiriel?"

Startled, Lothiriel meets her friend's gaze. "I am sorry, Eowyn, I was lost in thought. What do you need?"

"Will you help me lace my gown and unbind my hair?" The other woman asks. "I would not usually ask, but-"

"I would be happy to, if you will help me do the same," Lothiriel offers.

Eowyn happily agrees and they hurry about the room. Eowyn's gown is the white one she so favors, that compliments her so well. Her hair is lovely, out of its intricate ceremonial braid, and Lothiriel brushes it until it shines, like a waterfall of gold in the firelight.

"There," she says, feeling proud. "You shall certainly be the loveliest lady in the entire hall."

"Oh, I would not be so sure," Eowyn says, something mischievous in her tone. "Lothiriel, would you consider wearing your hair down for the evening?"

Lothiriel blinks, surprised at the request. In Gondor, it is not considered seemly for ladies of high birth to wear their hair unbound. Maidens, like herself, tended towards braids or buns, allowing the hair to be seen but not inviting touch. Naneth, like many other married ladies, usually wore hers in an intricate design of braids that encircled her head like a crown.

But with Arwen as their new Queen, it was likely that the fashion was soon to change. After all, Elvish women did not bind their hair in any way. And with Eowyn soon to be the second lady in Minas Tirith's court, loose hair would become more acceptable, if not the norm.

 _And we are not in Gondor_ , the voice whispers again. Surely Ada would not mind her following their host country's customs?

"Do you think I should?" She asks instead.

Eowyn considers for a moment. "I have always thought the style would become you," she admits. "Not that your braids do not, but this will be a change of pace."

So Lothiriel finds herself agreeing to unplait her hair. It feels nice, to have it hanging free. Truth be told, the braid gives her a headache sometimes, when she is too rushed to bind it properly.

"What dress were you planning on?" Eowyn asks suddenly.

Frowning, Lothiriel nods at her blue gown. It had been one of her favorites for so long, but now it feels...tired. Worn. Childish.

"It is lovely," Eowyn says slowly, "but something in your face is telling me you do not truly wish to wear it."

Cursing her glass face, Lothiriel shrugs. "I have always like it well enough before now, but tonight…"

Eowyn squeezes her hand. "I have just the thing."

She goes to her chest, gently pulling out a gown of emerald green. The style is certainly more Rohirric than Gondorian, with wider sleeves and a tighter fitting bodice. "Oh, it's lovely," she says. "But surely it is too fine for me to wear."

"You are a princess of Dol Amroth and one of my dearest friends," Eowyn insists, holding the gown out to her. "I think my mother would have been happy for you to wear it."

Lothiriel's mouth falls open in shock. "Eowyn! I cannot wear your mother's gown!"

"Why not, I have worn it before," is the frank response. "She was only a little taller than you, and I have not been able to wear it since I was six and ten."

"I-are you certain?" Lothiriel asks, still hesitant.

"It deserves to see a King's Feast again," Eowyn insists, a stubborn set to her jaw. "And I would trust no one else with it."

"If...if it fits," Lothiriel concedes, nerves biting at her.

It does, indeed, fit. In fact, it may be one of the best fitting gowns Lothiriel has ever worn.

"The color is lovely on you," Eowyn assures her. "You could almost be one of the Rohirrim."

Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at that. "I am far too dark of hair and skin to ever be mistaken for one of your people."

Eowyn's jaw goes mullish again and there is a spark of something almost angry in her eyes. "It is not how you look, it is who and what you are that makes you one of the Eorlingas. Grima Wormtongue was born here, raised here, taught here, but no one in all of Edoras would claim him as kin. I would claim you as my kin were you Gimli's height and had an extra ear growing out of your face."

"...oh," Lothiriel murmurs, chastened. And touched, very, very touched. "Eowyn. That means the world to me."

"As your friendship does to me," the other woman says, lacing her arm through Lothiriel's. "Come now, Thiri, let us bless the hall with our presence."

* * *

Eomer is grateful for the thinness of the shirt he is wearing; the new marks still ache terribly, though he expects the mead will dull that pain after one or two more mugs.

Aragorn sits beside him, a well of quiet calm in the otherwise boisterous attitude of the hall.

"You did well today, my friend," he says, careful to pat the unmarked skin of Eomer's forearm. "Rohan could not ask for a better king."

"Neither can Gondor," answers Eomer. "Between the two of us, let us hope we can bring our people some peace."

They toast to that, clinking their mugs together. It is hard not to be happy; the ceremony is over, his people are being fed, his friends are all around him. Imrahil and Erchirion have been waylaid by Eothain, and are absorbed in a lively-looking conversation. The hobbits have commandeered an entire cask of ale to themselves, and even Frodo, so often withdrawn, looks full of mirth. Gandalf, Gimli, and Legolas are down the table, Arwen to their right, her hand on her husband's arm as she laughs at something the Dwarf is telling her.

Only Eowyn is missing and he frowns at her absence.

"Bema, how long does it take a woman to get dressed?" He asks. "She has never been so slow at the task before-"

"She has many responsibilities, Eomer," Aragorn says soothingly. "I am sure whatever delays her will be worth the wait."

As if on cue, the doors from the royal apartments open, revealing his sister. She is in her preferred white gown, looking to all the world like the princess she shall soon be, when she marries her Steward.

And beside her-

Words are suddenly beyond him. Thought, even, is something he is suddenly incapable of.

"Bema," one of his guards murmurs, "Eomer King has been hit by _lígetsliht_."

"I believe you were correct, husband," comes Arwen's musical voice. "Eowyn's delay was not without merit."

Eomer shakes himself, feeling like little more than a _stripling_. He has seen beautiful women before, he has seen the _princess_ before, and yet-

It must be her hair. Her hair, usually tightly bound in a braid, flows now like a mare's mane in a thick cascade of brown waves. It softens her, and calls attention to the wideness of her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips. And the dress-it is the green of Rohan, and shows her shoulders in a way that no truly stuffy daughter of Gondor would allow. It is familiar, somehow, as if he has seen the dress before, long ago-

Eowyn catches his eye, something like triumph in her face.

Forcing his eyes back to his mug, Eomer takes a long swig. The alcohol must be stronger than he thought. Imrahil's daughter is not some bar wench to lust after for an evening.

"Brother," comes Eowyn's voice, dancing dangerously near smug, "I apologize for the delay."

"It was my fault," the princess says, loyal to the last, "I was unsure if my original dress was appropriate-"

"Lothiriel?" Imrahil has noticed his daughter's appearance as well. "What are you wearing? And your hair-"

"I loaned her a dress, my lord," Eowyn interjects smoothly. "And this is a Rohirric feast. Lothiriel was kind enough to indulge my theory that her hair would look lovely in the style of the Mark."

"It does," Imrahil says, voice faint. "I-when did you become a woman, little flower?"

"Some time while you were away," is her response, and she reaches out to grasp her father's hand. "I hope you do not mind, for I do not know a way to undo it."

"I would not ask you to," Imrahil says fiercely. "You look beautiful, my Thiri."

She flushes pink as a few men-Legolas and Gimli included-raise their glasses in agreement. Eomer nearly joins them, but is far too aware of the curious look Aragorn is shooting him out of the corner of his eye.

Eowyn comes to sit beside him, still too smug.

"Drink your ale," he tells her, sliding a mug towards her. "And be glad I do not spit in it."

"So cross, _déorest_ " she says. "Whatever could be bothering you?"

"You know exactly what," he hisses in a low murmur. "Parading the princess around like that; half of the men in the Hall are going to be pursuing her before the night is over-"

"I doubt that very much," is her much too benign response. "All they need do is look at your face should they dare try. It would frighten off even the most foolhardy, I think."

" _Eowyn_ -"

"Tell me you do not think her beautiful, and I shall let the matter rest," Eowyn interrupts.

Eomer cannot answer; to say he does not would be a lie, and to say that he does would make his sister insufferable.

Her tone is gentler the next time she speaks, and she rests her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I would see you happy."

"Throwing your friend at me is not the way to guarantee that," he mutters in a low tone.

Eowyn rolls her eyes. "That was not my intention. But I know you, Eomer, and you have a tendency to ignore things that are right before your eyes."

He chooses to ignore that particular comment as well, choosing instead to rise and join the hobbits at their cask. There, at least, he is guaranteed harmless fun.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Alriiiiight, there's a lot of stuff to unpack from in this chapter, so let's start at the beginning!

As previously noted, I'm pulling a lot of Rohirric culture from the pre-Roman Celts, who I realize are _not_ homogeneous, and were spread out across Northern England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland. Traditonal Celtic tattoos were usually done in ink made from the woad plant, which resulted in a beautiful blue color that the style has become famous for. However, since this is 1) fiction and 2) Rohan, blue tattoos seem out of place in a country where everything is basically one of three colors: green, red, and gold. So let's assume for the sake of this story, Rohan uses primarily green and red ink for its markings. Also, these tattoos, like real Celtic tattoos, follow a Celtic knot pattern (Google for a good visual) and are not gender-specific. The ladies have tattoos too, y'all, and we'll delve more into that in later chapters. And it's not just kings who receive marks-warriors, craftsmen, midwives, and more all can choose tattoos that mark their profession. Marital status is also defined by a mark, but again, that's for a later chapter.

Gondor, of course, as a sort of France/Spain hybrid, has a whole different set of traditions, none of which include ceremonial or identifying tattoos, hence Lothiriel's confusion.

ANYWAYS, ON THE ROMANCE FRONT: oh ho ho, looks like neither of them are as unaffected by the other as they'd like to believe! At this point, the rest of the cast of characters is probably on the verge of bursting into "Something There" (can you tell Beauty and the Beast is my favorite Disney movie?), but I digress. Little seeds eventually become mighty trees, my friends, and this is just the beginning. And ok ok, so I kiiiinda had to cut this chapter in half because it was getting too long. There's more about the feast in the beginning of the next chapter as well!

Hoo, boy, bunch of terms in this chapter:

 _helle:_ Hell, but also a general curse

 _sweostor_ : sister

 _déorest_ : dearest, beloved one

 _mearcung gescrif_ : translates roughly to 'marking ceremony' (though it should be noted that I am not a student of Old English, so if there is a better way to phrase this, please let me know!)

 _héafodstede_ _:_ a chief place, which in this context I've twisted a little to mean "the king's place". Only the kings of Rohan and those associated with the marking ceremony are permitted to see the inside of this building.

 _oræfta:_ an artist, craftsman

 _Eomer Éadig_ : Eomer the blessed, per canon

 _Eomer Cynnig becymeþ:_ Eomer King enters!

 _Thuio, mellon_ : Sindarian for "breathe, friend"

 _lígetsliht:_ a flash of lightning (many, many kudos to those of you can guess which famous movie I borrowed this idea from)


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note:** Back again, y'all! So glad you're all enjoying the story and willing to put up with the definitely slow, slow-burn status of things.

This chapter's a bit long, and choc full of meddling ;)

* * *

 **CHAPTER 8**

* * *

If Ada had taken her dress and hair well, Erchirion takes it even better.

"Sweet Elbereth, Lothiriel," he says, voice warm with amusement, "I do not think Ada and I will be enough of a threat to keep every man in the hall from asking you to dance tonight."

She shoves his shoulder, blushing. "You are ridiculous."

"That is more Amrothos's realm of expertise than mine," he insists, squeezing her hand. "Truly, the style suits you, Thiri."

"Here, here," choruses Gimli.

"Eowyn deserves some credit," Lothiriel says, hoping to turn a little bit of the table's attention away from her. "I am merely the product of her handiwork."

Eowyn scoffs. "Your beauty is certainly something I had little hand in. You must thank your parents for that."

"Thank you, Ada," Lothiriel chirps, grinning when her father groans.

"Such cheek! And here I was thinking you had truly become a lady," he teases.

"Lady or not, Naneth has always told me to hold tight to my wit."

"A wise woman, your mother," says Aragorn.

"I have always thought so," Ada says, pride and love plain in his voice.

There's a sudden cheer from the rest of the hall; the hobbits have launched into another dance atop the tables, spinning each other 'round and 'round and sloshing ale everywhere.

"A dance!" Someone cries. "Let us dance!"

The musicians must have been prepared for this, because the drum heavy music of the Mark starts up not minutes afterwards. The floor is quickly cleared, couples partnering off, and unpaired people trying to make eye-contact with the partner of their choice. Aragorn, surprisingly, offers his hand to Eowyn. She shares a look with the queen-who looks utterly amused by the development-before accepting.

"Would you care to dance, my lady?" Legolas's voice startles her and Lothiriel turns to offer him a small smile.

"I am afraid I am very untrained in any Rohirric dances," she admits. "I would not want to crush your poor toes."

"Nonsense, his toes have had far worse than a lovely lass treading on them," Gimli chuckles. "Dance, my lady, for you are young and this night is for youth!"

Lothiriel wants to point out that Legolas himself is far from being considered "youthful", but keeps her tongue in check. She accepts her friend's hand and allows him to lead her to the center of the hall, where they fall into step beside Eowyn and Aragorn.

"I am going to make a fool of myself," she mutters.

"You have an Elf as your dance partner," Eowyn says, pinching her side. "I doubt Legolas knows how to look like a fool, much less dance with one."

Legolas smiles at her as the dance begins; it is very unlike any of the dances she knows, and even unlike the few dances Naneth has taught her from Pelargir. But Legolas is an excellent partner, indicating which way to step with the gentlest press of his hand, the slight twist of his shoulders. He does catch her by surprise when he lifts her, but the rest of the men are doing the same to their partners, and Lothiriel assumes it is part of the dance.

She's breathless with laughter by the time they finish, and Legolas bows over her hand.

"Your heritage reveals itself most when you dance, _mellon_ ," he says. "My toes were quite safe."

Shaking her head at him, she turns to return to the table, only to find her path blocked by a number of smiling men. She recognizes a few of them as patients of hers from the Houses, and offers her greeting.

"You dance well, my lady!" Leofa, bless him, says, with a beaming smile.

"Aye!" Is the chorused agreement.

"You are all too kind," she tells them. She is not accustomed to so much male attention; in Dol Amroth, she has known most of the lords from childhood, many of them good friends with her brothers, therefore putting her strictly off-limits, while in Minas Tirith, most men tend to act as if she blends in with the walls, for all that her complexion makes her stand out so drastically against them.

"Would you like to dance again?" One of the men-Dunstan, if she's remembering correctly, who she'd helped patch up a small wound on his shoulder in the Houses-asks.

"I-"

"Dunstan, you know as well as we do that you've got two left feet. Dance with Folcred, my lady, if you want an attentive partner."

"No, choose me, milady, these louts haven't got any idea how to handle a princess-"

She is not, however, so innocent in the ways of men that she does not understand the innuendos being flung around in front of her. She has three brothers, after all, and despite Ada's attempts to keep her from their more...romantic exploits, she knows the way of things. Wishing for Erchirion, she attempts to make her excuses. The men do not press, but none step aside, clearly waiting for her to change her mind.

At least, that is how it feels, until-

"You are crowding her," comes a familiar voice. "Give the princess some space."

Relief washes through her as Eomer appears. While it irritates her that the men respect his wishes and not hers, she cannot truly fault any of them. After all, he is their king, and she merely the princess of a foreign country. These are good men, and none of them meant any harm; just a mild flirtation.

"I could do with some ale," she admits.

He offers his elbow without comment and his men wisely part for them.

"Thank you," she says in a low tone. "I did not want to disappoint them, but I am sure with any partner less graceful than Legolas, I would have done myself or someone else harm."

"They could do with some disappointment," he grumbles. "Any fool could see that you were uncomfortable."

"It was not that, I am just not…" She pauses, wondering if she should reveal such a private thing to him. He is a king and brother to her dear friend or no, he surely has little time for the insecurities of princesses.

Eomer stops and she can feel the weight of his gaze on her face; unlike the wall of attention he had just rescued her from, his focus is not uncomfortable. And he _had_ spoken to her of Theodred, and she would like to believe them friends, or near enough to it…

"I am not accustomed to so much male attention," she admits, shrugging.

His brow furrows at that, as if she has said something confusing. "Surely, you jest."

Now it is her turn to feel confused. "Not in the slightest."

He laughs slightly. "Dol Amroth must be a very different sort of place. Or your brothers must be especially vigilant."

"Both things are true," Lothiriel says slowly, still feeling perplexed.

They have reached the casks of ale now, and Merthwyn, the lead housekeeper, is there. She greets Eomer with a warm smile, though the expression dims a little when she turns to offer Lothiriel a mug.

"So this is the Gondorian princess," she says, her voice thick with the Rohirric accent.

"Well met, Lady Merthwyn," Lothiriel acknowledges, feeling as if she is being put to the test. "It is an honor to meet the woman who keeps Meduseld so well run."

At that, the housekeeper's full smile returns. "Pretty _and_ diplomatic. I knew there was a reason they are so fond of you."

 _They?_ Lothiriel wonders. But then she is aware of Eowyn's smile from across the hall, and Eothain's sudden wink in her direction. Eomer looks distinctly embarrassed, for some reason, which she elects to ignore. "I am equally fond of them, my lady."

"Bah, the only lady here is you, _min déore_. But I thank you for the kindness all the same."

Lothiriel smiles at the woman's tone; she is not unlike Aunt Ivriniel. A spine of steel, but a warm heart. Eomer leads her away once she has her mug filled, and she hears the old housekeeper call something out to him in Rohirric that makes him flinch before shooting her a stern look.

"What did Merthwyn say?" She asks.

Eomer starts, nearly sloshing ale onto her borrowed gown. Wincing, Lothiriel pulls her arm from his to inspect the sleeve; it is dry but for a few drops, and she takes a calming breath.

"Ale would not have ruined the gown, my lady," he says, ignoring her previous question.

"I would not want to get even the smallest of stains on this," she says, feeling suddenly shy. "Eowyn loaned it to me."

"It must be an old one of hers, by the cut and length," he murmurs, fingering the damp spot on the sleeve almost absentmindedly. "She has not been your height since she was scarcely more than a girl."

"It is not Eowyn's," Lothiriel starts to say, feeling heat creep up her neck. She does not know _why_ it is so important that he know the truth-that he knows how honored and utterly, utterly undeserving she feels to wear something of such value to her friends-only that it is.

She thinks she sees realization dawn on his face, but Pippin is suddenly there, with Merry as well, pulling her hands from Eomer's and bemoaning how little they've seen of her tonight, that if she would dance with Legolas, that she must dance with them again.

Lothiriel allows herself to be led away, but she cannot shake the weight of Eomer's stare, even when he is swallowed up by the crowd.

* * *

" _It is not Eowyn's,"_ she had said. Four words, meaningless out of context, but this, _this_ …

There is only one other woman he can think of that had been remotely near the princess's size. Only one woman whose gowns Eowyn would have kept, and loaned to someone he knows she already considers kin.

Lothiriel is wearing his mother's gown.

Were it any other woman-a different Gondorian noble maid, prissy and proper and courtly, or even another of his countrywomen, the women his advisors keep suggesting at every Council meeting, blonde and true and honest-he doubts he would feel anything other than anger.

But this is not anger.

This is...something else entirely.

Bema, he scarcely _knows_ the woman! She is vexing and kind in equal measure, with a temper at least as hot as his, and as obstinate as mule when she digs her heels in. But she has been a great friend to Eowyn, and the affection she shows her family is genuine, true. She collects champions as easily as the sun shines, and Vana, that _smile_ -

But she is Imrahil's daughter. A princess, Gondorian, and despite Dol Amroth's more relaxed culture, the Mark would certainly lose its charm for her after a time. Grandmother Morwen had certainly tired of it-

"Eomer King," comes Arwen's musical voice. "Are you well?"

Eomer blinks, coming back to himself. "Yes, my lady."

"Hm," she hums, sounding so like Aragorn in that moment that he nearly flinches. "I suppose I will choose to believe you."

She slips her arm through his, gently leading him back towards the head table.

"My husband and Mithrandir wish to speak to you," she says by way of explanation. "I hope I did not interrupt anything?"

His eyes flick to hers, suddenly wary. Lady Galadriel was rumored to be able to hear a man's thoughts, and he wonders if her granddaughter possesses a similar gift.

"No," he says instead. "Nothing of consequence."

She hums again. They reach the table and Aragorn pats the space beside him, Gandalf puffing cheerfully on his pipe.

"Oh, Eomer," comes Arwen's voice again. "A word of advice?"

"Yes?"

"There is an old saying amongst my people: _but he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose_."

He blinks at her, utterly perplexed. "I am sorry, my lady, I do not understand."

She smiles, a warm light in her blue eyes. "In time, _gwedeir_. In time."

With that rather baffling piece of advice, he allows himself to be drawn into conversation with his friends, resolving not to think about queens or princesses for the rest of the night.

* * *

Lothiriel is exhausted and feeling a little bit more than tipsy-Merry and Pippin had not let her mug remain less than halfway full the entirety of the time she'd danced with them-and she finally makes her way back to the high table, sinking onto the bench with a sigh.

Ada has long since departed, either for bed or to smoke another pipe outside with Mithrandir. Erchirion is deep in conversation with Lisswyn at the end of the table. Now, _that_ was an interesting development. Lisswyn is far from Erchirion's usual taste in women: red-haired, shy, and soft-spoken. But somehow, they suit. Not that anything can truly come of it; for all of Dol Amroth's support of love matches, the couple must be from equal rank in society.

 _And our family is considered odd enough as it is_ , Lothiriel thinks with a scowl.

"Careful, or your face may get stuck like that," Eowyn teases, dropping down beside her with a silly grin.

Lothiriel brightens at her friend's arrival. She shoves Eowyn's elbow, and they fall together in an ungraceful heap, giggling madly.

"Drunkards!" Eothain teases, leaning on the table across from them.

"As if you can talk," his wife, Wilfled, retorts, poking her husband in the stomach. "How many mugs of ale have you had tonight, _déore_?"

"Enough," he admits. "But not as many as our king last night!"

Wilfled hushes him, clearly embarrassed, but Eomer merely shrugs from his place beside Aragorn. "He is right. And I certainly don't envy the way his head will feel tomorrow."

"Bah, hangovers are for green boys," Eothain slurs, waving a hand at his king. "I am beyond such suffering now."

Wilfled rolls her eyes and hefts her husband to his feet. Despite their difference in stature-and her very apparent pregnancy-she moves him with ease. "You are not beyond risking your wife's displeasure when she has to deal with said hangover on the morrow. Up, husband, I am ready for bed."

Eothain waggles his eyebrows at that, earning a pinch from his wife, but she smiles all the same. Their departure prompts another round of stragglers to follow them. Lothiriel yawns; she had not realized how tired she was until just this moment. She stands, ready to make her farewells, when she brushes her hand against the small bundle tied inside her sleeve.

"Oh!" She says softly, remembering why she'd put it there in the first place.

Steadying herself on the closest chair, she manages to make a decently dignified walk over to the end of the table, where Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Eomer still sit.

"Have you come to bid us goodnight, _mellon_?" Legolas asks.

"No," she says and then pauses. "Well, yes, but not only that."

If she had been slightly more sober, she might have noticed Aragorn's near face-splitting grin, and Gimli's badly muffled laughter. As it is, she notices neither, focusing all of her limited awareness on Eomer instead.

"Here," she says, offering him the pouch.

He hesitates, dark eyes bearing into hers. A sudden shiver snakes up her spine, though it is far from cold.

"What is it?"

"Tumeric," Lothiriel answers, her tongue feeling strangely unwieldy in her mouth. "It helps lessen inflammation and can lower pain levels if eaten."

This time, she does hear Gimli's laugh and offers him a fierce scowl before turning her attention back to the king.

"I do not think I am going to be the one in need of this in the morning," he says gently. He has a nice voice, Rohan's king, when he isn't brooding. He should be less broody, Lothiriel decides.

The meaning of his words trickle slowly through the pleasant fuzziness in her brain, and Lothiriel frowns. "It's not for that," she assures him pushing the pouch back in his direction. "I do not know much about king's marks, my lord, but I imagine having one's skin poked and dyed is far from comfortable, even hours after the fact."

There is a sudden snort from Aragorn's direction, but when she turns to look at Gondor's king, his face is smooth.

Eomer, meanwhile, is staring at her like she's grown a second head. Flushing, she plucks at her sleeve. A thought dawns and she can feel her face-already pink-likely turning red. "Unless the pain is part of the ceremony, I did not mean any offense-"

And then his hand is over hers, covering it and the pouch. Sweet Elbereth, but his hand was _large_ and warm and-

"Thank you," he says, cutting across her increasingly fuzzy thoughts.

She can only smile at him, helplessly, feeling unsure over which part of her body was more likely to catch fire: her face, from her embarrassment, or her hand, held in his.

Erchirion clears his throat from somewhere far away and Lothiriel nearly jumps, startled. She presses the pouch more firmly into his hand before pulling hers away. "Good night, my lords," Lothiriel murmurs.

They chorus their response and suddenly Eowyn is by her side, linking her arm through hers. "I had forgotten how our ale may affect those not used to it."

Lothiriel frowns; she has had wine before, and mead! Surely, Rohirric ale was not all that different!

"I am fine," she insists. "Just tired."

Eowyn snorts, patting her arm. "If you say so, Lothiriel."

The headache that greets her in the morning, however, soon proves her wrong.

* * *

Missives and letters, it seems, wait for no man, not even the King of Rohan.

The desk in his uncle's study-his now, like so many other things-is nearly covered in unread reports, tedious legal documents, and Bema knows what else. He almost wishes he had overindulged in the ale last night, if only so the resulting headache would have staved off dealing with the dull tasks that now await him.

But being a king is more than leading men into battle or continuing the line of Eorl; he must govern as well.

So. Paperwork.

He's perhaps four missives in-one report detail Snowbourne's losses, two letters concerning the slowly dwindling grain supplies in the East-mark, and another from the West-mark, with warnings of Dunlendings moving along the border-when there's a knock at the door.

"Come in," Eomer says, perhaps a bit more brusquely than necessary. He's already frightened one page nearly to death from barking at him-but Eomer, Eomund's son, has never been a morning person, a fact unlikely to change with his newly acquired title.

Thankfully, it's only his sister, who enters the room with a roll of her eyes. "Honestly, Eomer, you need to learn how to at least _fake_ a cheerful mood."

"A king may do as he pleases," he grumbles, leaning back in his chair to rub his eyes.

"A king may, but he shouldn't," she argues, flicking his shoulder.

He flinches away from her-Eowyn's thumps are legendary, and his shoulder is more than little tender, despite the princess's helpful powder; tumeric, she'd called it, and it had helped, despite its spicy taste.

"Still sore?" Eowyn asks. "I would have thought Lothiriel's _thoughtful_ recommendation would have helped with that." She pauses, frowning. "Unless you were too stubborn to listen to her-"

"Peace, Eowyn," he interrupts. "I have no fault with the princess's suggestion. It was very useful."

"She'll be pleased to hear it," Eowyn says, a catlike smile on her face. "Well, she will be after her headache wears off."

Eomer snorts; he knows all too well what too much Rohirric ale can do to a person. The princess is considerably smaller than the majority of his warriors, though, and shorter of stature than most of the Rohirric women that he knows...frowning, he opens his mouth to ask Eowyn if perhaps the princess would have more use of the herb than he would.

"She has more than enough supplies in the chest Lady Dejah sent with her to tend to her own pains, if that's what worries you," his sister says, grin only growing.

Blinking at her, his frown deepens. "How could you have known-"

"You have your fretting face on," she says, reaching out to press a finger between his eyebrows. "I have seen it leveled at me enough to know what it means."

He swats her hand away, displeased at having been read so easily. "I assume you came here with some other purpose than to irritate me, Eowyn."

His sister deflates a little, the teasing sparkle vanishing from her eyes. "Well, of course, Eomer. I did not mean to interrupt-"

Feeling even more like an ass, he sighs, running a hand through his hair before standing. Taking Eowyn's hands in his own, he gives them a gentle squeeze, guilt lessening when she offers up a smile. "Peace, _sweostor_. My ear is always yours."

She brightens a little at that. "Good. I have somewhat of an...unorthodox request."

Unorthodox and Eowyn tend to go hand and hand, and Eomer cannot say he is surprised by his sister's words. "How unusual," he says drolly, earning a punch to his shoulder for his cheek.

"Beast," she grumbles. "But Eomer, truly, it is odd. And I know it is, but I do not see another course of action, and the situation is very precarious...and precious to me-"

Ice-cold fear suddenly slides into his stomach. Surely, she hadn't-the Steward, her Steward, _Faramir_ would not have-

"Eowyn," he interrupts, trying to keep his voice level, "speak plainly."

"I would ask your permission to invite Lothiriel to stay with us, when Aragorn and the rest return to Gondor," she says, brow furrowed. "What did you think I was asking?"

Letting out a loud sigh of relief, Eomer smiles, just slightly. "Certainly not that."

Eowyn's eyebrow only raises-Bema, curse him and his assumptions-and he knows he will have to tell her, much to her displeasure. "I feared...I thought there might be cause to move your wedding date closer."

Eowyn stares at him for a moment before he is subjected to another one of her hearty punches. "You absolute _brute_! Do men think of nothing else?"

"It would not be unusual in the Mark…" He defends weakly, earning another swat.

"Faramir is _not of the Mark_ ," Eowyn hisses, "and I am going to be considered outsider enough without a bastard child in my belly!"

He frowns again; he had not considered Eowyn's own worries in the face of her coming marriage. Brave, headstrong Eowyn, who could yell down the most grizzled soldier and had slayed the Witch King...nervous?

"What part does the princess play in all of this?" He asks, in an attempt to distract her, but also to answer his own curiosity.

"She is a high-born lady of Gondor," Eowyn says, as if explaining the concept to a small child, "and despite her dislike of the more stuffy traditions, she knows them, and knows how to manage a Gondorian household. And I...do not."

A shieldmaiden was more at home on a battlefield than a Gondorian court, and Eomer can see why she worries. But the princess...Bema, if there was any other lady less suited to Minas Tirith's court than Eowyn herself, it was Imrahil's youngest! The elder princess of Dol Amroth, the Lady Dejah, would have been an apt choice, but he could not ask Imrahil to call upon his wife so soon after the birth of their grandchild.

"I am not sure it is a wise idea," he says, slowly, "the princess is a dear friend to you, I know, but surely the queen would be a better source for...womanly decorum."

"Arwen is an Elf," Eowyn snaps. "And far less stern than you believe."

 _That_ is something Eomer can agree upon, remembering her strange riddle from the night before. "Still, Eowyn, it has been months since Lothiriel has seen her home, and she herself admits to being far from the Gondorian standard for ladies. We could send for a tutor, perhaps-"

"I do not want a tutor, or some mindless doll to tell me how to act in front of the king-who has saved my life and that of my beloved's-or how to best please my husband by never speaking my mind," Eomer's quite certain she has just stamped her foot, a display of temper he hasn't seen from Eowyn since they were both scarcely knee-high. "I ask for Lothiriel to stay and teach me because I think her capable, and know for a fact she will not, she could not-"

Her sudden tears startle him; Eowyn has cried in his presence only a handful of times, and most of those had been around the same time as the deaths of their parents, years ago now.

" _Sweostor_ ," he says softly, pulling her into an embrace. "Please, do not-"

"I do not know _when_ I started being like this," she mutters. "I am a Shieldmaiden of Rohan-we do not _cry_ -"

"Tears are not always an evil," Eomer interrupts. "I feel as though I have missed something vital. Why is it so important that it is the princess and no one else?"

Eowyn sighs, some of the tension leaving her. "Lothiriel is my friend. I know her, I trust her...she will not mock my worries, nor think less of me for not understanding Gondorian ways. Can you say that about any other Gondorian noblewoman we have encountered?"

 _No_ is the immediate, honest answer. There had been a number of decent ladies within the Courts, but none who had warmed to Eowyn the way the princess had, and certainly none who would ride to Rohan to assuage her fears. He cannot blame Eowyn for wanting someone she trusts and likes for this; were he in a similar position, he would want the same. In fact, he had relied on Aragorn enough these past few months to understand Eowyn's apprehension more than she likely knows. Had any other man been the King of Gondor, Eomer would have bristled under his advice, but wisdom from Aragorn-his friend, his brother-in-arms-rarely goes amiss.

"You are right," he finally answers. "But she is not my subject, Eowyn. I can hardly command her to stay."

Eowyn rolls her eyes, gently disengaging herself from his hug. "I would like to see you try! Ask her father what he thinks of the idea. Aragorn too, since he is her sovereign."

Groaning-he can imagine how _that_ conversation will go-he pinches the bridge of his nose. "And here I thought there could be nothing as troublesome as paperwork."

Eowyn all but shoves him into his chair, patting the top of his head with a bit more force than necessary. "Yes, well, being a king isn't all fun and games. I'll tell Aragorn and Imrahil you want to speak to them."

Feeling more than slightly manhandled, Eomer resigns himself to his sister's plans.

* * *

"Ah, she lives!" Erchirion cries upon noticing her.

Wincing, Lothiriel eases herself onto the bench beside her brother. "You sounded disturbingly like Amrothos then, 'Chirion. Please stop."

"You _drank_ disturbingly like Amrothos last night, little flower," he teases, poking her side. "Does the ale not agree with you?"

"The ale was fine," she grumbles. "It is its after-effects I am less fond of."

"You and many others," her brother says sagely.

 _Erchirion is chipper this morning,_ Lothiriel thinks, _nearly giddy_. He is not prone to Amrothos's flights of fancy, nor Elphir's occasional deep, booming laughs. His amusement is typically more inward, his joy quiet.

"Did you have much ale last night, 'Chirion?" She asks suspiciously.

"Hardly any at all," is the prompt response.

Narrowing her eyes at him, she leans closer. "Have you had some this morning?"

He chuckles at that, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "Can a man not be happy on a beautiful morning in a beautiful place, with his beautiful sister by his side, without being suspected of drunkenness?"

Feeling suddenly foolish, she leans her head on his shoulder. Erchirion has a poet's heart underneath his Swan livery, and this War has been harder on him than most. She should not begrudge him his good mood, no matter the mysteriousness of its cause.

"I am sorry," she says, "my headache must be affecting me more than I thought."

"Here, then," comes Eothain's deep voice, "I have something that should cure what ails you, my lady."

Eothain had drank at _least_ double of what Lothiriel had consumed last night, and yet here he stands, smiling and obviously pain free.

"Please," Lothiriel begs, "I think I would drink ditch-water if it would get rid of this infernal pounding."

"Your wish is my command," he says, with a grand bow. "Though you may be wishing for ditch-water after a swig of _morgendrenc_ , my lady."

" _Morgendrenc_?" She asks, stumbling over the word. Rohirric is much harsher than Westron, and doubly as hard to pronounce than even the most obscure Sindarin.

"It translates to 'morning drink'," comes Lisswyn's gentle voice. "And it is the best cure for overindulgence, no matter how bad it smells."

"And tastes," Eothain adds. "Best to do it all in one sip."

Lothiriel peers at the cup Lisswyn has passed her; it looks innocent enough, mostly clear, with little bits of ground herbs swirling around the outer rim, but _by the Valar_ , the smell!

"Well," she says, trying to force the ridiculous wobble out of her voice, "cheers, I suppose."

And with that, she gulps down the drink as quickly as she can. It is possibly the most vile thing she's ever tasted, and that includes Amrothos's solitary attempt at brewing mead in one of the flowerpots as an adolescent. Lisswyn pats her back when she begins to cough and Erchirion mutters something in Sindarin to help soothe her. Miraculously, she keeps it down. Even more amazing, her head begins to lessen its pounding not moments after. There's an appreciative murmur from around the hall. Apparently, she'd had more of an audience than she'd realized.

"I am afraid you've just won yourself a few more suitors, _glómmung cwén_ ," Lisswyn murmurs. "That was impressive, especially for someone not of the Mark."

Groaning, Lothiriel hides her face against Erchirion's shoulder. "I should have stayed in Gondor," she grumbles.

"And missed the opportunity to be admired for your drinking skills?" He whispers back, earning a pinch.

Favorite brother or not, Lothiriel is eagerly looking forward to the day someone has to force _morgendrenc_ down Erchirion's throat.

* * *

"...and so Eowyn has asked if the princess might remain when your parties return to Gondor," Eomer finishes.

Imrahil looks strangely serene in the face of this odd request, and Aragorn...there is more than the hint of a smile upon his friend's face, and the sight unsettles him.

"I would have to ask Lothiriel's opinion on the matter," Imrahil finally says, stroking his chin in thought. "Though I doubt she will raise any objections."

That surprises Eomer; he would have thought the princess would be eager to return to Dol Amroth, to reunite with her mother and other family.

Imrahil smiles when he says as much. "She has always been a bit of an adventurer, our Thiri. I think more time in Rohan will do her some good; idleness is something she cannot abide, and I do not foresee her becoming so here, especially in your sister's company."

"I cannot disagree with that," Eomer admits. "But she will not grow weary of our...less formal ways?"

"Does my daughter strike you as someone who puts much stock in formality?" Imrahil asks with an arched brow.

Aragorn is shooting him a similar look over the older man's shoulder. Eomer sighs-Bema spare him from meddling Gondorians! "Not particularly, Imrahil."

"I certainly have no objections," Aragorn chimes in, still smiling. "It strikes me as singularly fitting."

"How so?" Imrahil asks.

Eomer does not trust-nor particularly like-the mischievous look on his fellow king's face.

"Well, to begin with, Eowyn shall soon be a lady of Gondor, and you shall find your hall utterly depleted of highborn ladies, brother. It only seems right that we loan you one of our best and brightest for a time."

"She is that," Imrahil says proudly.

"Not to mention the other coincidence that has been brought to my attention," Aragorn continues.

Something in his tone makes Eomer's palms sweat. "That being?"

"My dear wife," and Eomer groans, knowing this can only bode ill, but Aragorn continues on as if he hasn't heard him, "made mention to me something I had long forgotten."

"Aragorn," Eomer grumbles.

"The races of Arda have long been referred to by the Elves under various names. Men of Gondor have been known as Numenoreans, but the Men of Rohan have long been known as the Men of Twilight. How fitting that _Lady_ Twilight should find a sort of home here."

Eomer spits out the small sip of water he'd chosen the wrong moment to drink. Aragorn was not known for subtlety but, _Bema_ saying such a thing in front of Imrahil-!

"I have often thought my daughter not entirely suited for the life that would have been expected of her in Gondor," Imrahil murmurs, serene. "I am glad to know I am not alone in my opinion."

Eomer is still struggling to regain his breath- _damn_ meddling Gondorians and well-wishing friends-but Imrahil is not finished.

"I think Lothiriel will be more than happy to stay, as long as you do not mind Erchirion's presence as well, Eomer," his friend says. "I do not think her mother would forgive me if I left her without a suitable companion, but neither would she condone my staying here until after Yule."

"I would not either," Aragorn says lightly, still smiling in an utterly infuriating fashion. "And as your king, I do have some say."

Feeling as though he has just walked into a very obvious trap, Eomer gulps down the rest of his water without further comment.

 _Eowyn owes me for this_ , he thinks.

* * *

 **Author's note:** My, my, is that flirtation I see? And yes, the meddling on all fronts is a little heavy-handed, but what else are friends and family for? So now Lothiriel is looking at an extended trip to Rohan, and Eomer's official reign will begin.

Not so many terms as last chapter, but for clarification:

 _mellon:_ Sindarian for friend

 _min déore:_ my dear

 _But he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose:_ One of my favorite quotes from Anne Bronte's _The Narrow Way_ , but it seems suitably Elvish enough for Arwen to lay claim to it

 _gwedeir:_ Sindarian for brother

 _morgendrenc:_ morning drink, which I've interpreted to be the Rohirric equivalent of a hangover cure. Imagine it as you will.

 _glómmung cwén:_ twilight lady (we'll be seeing this very, very often in coming chapters)


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** Y'all, thanks again for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites! I know I repeat myself, but it really does make sharing this story with y'all such a joy :)

We get a few more examples of culture clashes and a bit of a wider view of Rohan! Oh, and Eomer and Lothiriel have a somewhat revealing conversation, though not in the way you think ;) Enjoy!

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE**

* * *

In the weeks after her father's departure, Lothiriel knows she has made the right choice.

Oh, bidding Ada good-bye had been hard; bidding good-bye to him is _always_ a trial, but this time she is sending him home, to Naneth and safety and Dol Amroth, and that sweetens the sorrow of their parting.

For she cannot leave Eowyn to her worries, her doubts. She has become too dear for her to that. Naneth would understand, as Aunt Ivriniel had offered her council after she had married Ada, so long ago now. Gondor's court is tricky to navigate even at the best of times, and Lothiriel is loathe to leave Eowyn unprepared for the challenge.

But part of her wants to stay for her own, selfish reasons.

The War is over. Naneth has taken up her rightful mantle as princess of Dol Amroth. Alycia will begin to take on more responsibilities, once Nemiriel is old enough. Between the two of them, there will be little left for Lothiriel to do in her city. Oh, she has learned enough of healing in the Houses and at Naneth's side, been privy to war council meetings thanks to Elphir and Ada, and learned about the lands to the South from Alycia. But the men have returned, now, and she would not be expected to sit in on council meetings any more, or to be asked for her opinion on the swiftness of the fleet, or how to feed the common people in the face of a severe storm.

She would be welcome at home, this Lothiriel knows, both by her family and by her people. And yet...she would feel useless, reverted once more to the girl she had been before the War, high-born and hot-tempered and childish. Here, at least, she can offer some kind of service, even if it is teaching one of her dearest friends about something she likes the least.

"Lothiriel, are you listening to me?"

Jumping, and flushing guiltily, Lothiriel offers Lisswyn a helpless smile. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

The older woman shakes her head, hoisting little Darwyn more securely on her hip. "Not in the slightest, _glómmung cwén_."

"I am sorry," Lothiriel murmurs, cursing her too-open face once more. "I will be more attentive, I promise."

Lisswyn looks amused at that. "I was merely asking if you would like to join your brother and mine on a ride, but if you would rather stay here and sew-"

Lothiriel is out of her seat before Lisswyn can finish the sentence, causing the other woman to laugh and startles a surprised giggle out of Darwyn's mouth.

Ada had been generous enough to leave Niphredil behind in Edoras, and though she'd been down to the impressive stables more than a few times to tend to her mare, it feels like an _age_ since she's been able to ride her properly.

"I thought that might be the case," Lisswyn laughs. "Shall I tell them to wait for you while you change?"

Lothiriel pauses, offering her friend a confused look. "Change?"

Her dress is a familiar one from home, light blue and light weight, and perfectly suitable for the late summer heat. It's even long enough to cover her legs should she choose to ride side-saddle.

"Surely you don't intend to ride in that dress," Lisswyn says, looking as confused as Lothiriel feels.

"What else would I ride in?"

She has riding gowns, to be sure, but they are tedious to get into without help, and she would not want to bother any of the serving girls in the middle of the day to lace her into one.

"It is blue!" Lisswyn cries, as if the source of her concern is obvious.

"Many of my dresses are blue, Lisswyn," Lothiriel laughs, running a hand over the soft fabric. "It is one of Dol Amroth's principle colors."

Lisswyn looks stunned. "And all ladies wear blue?"

Quirking an eyebrow, and feeling very much like she's missing something, Lothiriel nods. "Well, yes, of course. The shades vary, of course, but we are a seafaring town, and like to be reminded of it."

Lisswyn's look of alarm has faded, if only just. "So the color...it has no deeper meaning?"

"No, I do not believe so," Lothiriel answers, brow wrinkled. "Why?"

"In the Mark, an unmarried woman only wears blue if she has interested in being courted," Lisswyn explains. "The dye to make such a color is rare, and to wear a dress on a ride with an unmarried man is considered the first step towards a betrothal."

"Oh!" Lothiriel cries, suddenly understanding. Now that she thinks about it, she has seen scarcely any blue dresses amongst the Rohirric women, and certainly none on any of the women she has seen a-horse. "I do not want to waste Eothain or Erchirion's time by changing into another dress," she says slowly, twisting her necklace nervously. "Would...would it be so bad if I wore blue with them? Would I cause any offense?"

"No, not at all," is her friend's response. There is a look of mischief on her face, however, that belies her innocent tone. "Well, at least not in this case."

"Meaning?" Lothiriel asks. While she likes and trusts both Lisswyn and Eothain, the siblings have a knack for trickery that rivals even Amrothos.

"Eothain is wed and Erchirion is your brother," Lisswyn explains. "You wearing blue while riding in their presence is highly unlikely to indicate your encouragement of their courtship of you."

That startles a shocked laugh out of Lothiriel; in Gondor, it would be the cut of the dress that indicates courting, not color.

"Yes, we wouldn't want that," she agrees. Pausing, she twists her lips in thought. "It wouldn't be seen as improper, since Eothain is married?"

"Everyone in Edoras knows how well my brother loves Wilfled," Lisswyn assures her. "And everyone also knows what she would do to him should he ever stray."

Lothiriel smiles at that. Willowy and fine-boned as Wilfled is, there is no denying that Eothain's wife could be positively terrifying when truly upset.

"If you are certain," she says again, just to be sure.

Lisswyn shoos her, smiling. "Away with you, my lady, they won't wait forever."

Erchirion beams at her when she arrives outside, but Eothain's eyebrows jump to his hairline when he takes in her attire. "Blue, my lady?"

"Lisswyn explained," she murmurs. "If anything, you can blame it on my Gondorian strangeness and I'll make my apologies to Wilfled."

Eothain shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse in Rohirric before offering here a wry smile. "It's not Wilfled I'm worried about, _glómmung cwén_. Erchirion," at this, he turns to face her brother with a serious expression, "you ride on the lady's right and I will take the left."

Erchirion arches an eyebrow. "If you are worried about my sister's riding abilities, you should not be."

"I do not doubt Lothiriel at all," Eothain grumbles. "It is the bastards who will see the color of her gown as an invitation that I worry about."

"What?"

Quickly, Lothiriel explains. The look of utter amusement on Erchirion's face is not what she would have expected, but her brother has been in a strangely good mood of late.

"Perhaps we will find you a horse-lord after all, Thiri," he teases.

Shoving him, and ignoring Eothain's guffaw of laughter, Lothiriel swings herself up into Niprhedil's saddle. Her horse wickers gently at her and Lothiriel rubs the soft skin of her mare's neck. " _Suilannad,_ _meldis_ ," she whispers.

Nipredhil nickers and Eothain eyes her. "Speaking in that fancy Elf language to your horse, my lady?"

"I can hardly speak to her in Rohirric," Lothiriel counters with a smile.

"Wouldn't be a bad thing to learn," Eothain says, smiling. "Since you're to stay in the Mark until after Yule."

Privately, Lothiriel considers the idea. It _would_ be easier if she could speak the language of the Mark. While most people in Edoras spoke Westron, a few of the serving girls were from the outer reaches of the country, and she only managed to embarrass herself in front of them without Eowyn or Lisswyn's help. The horses, too, tended to respond better to Rohirric commands, and while she never intends to give up Niphredil, it would be enjoyable to be able to ride another horse, should she so choose.

Lost in her thoughts, it takes Erchirion calling her name half a dozen times before she realizes her companions have mounted their own horses and have moved ahead a few paces without her.

She nudges Niphredil and takes her place between her "protectors". Eothain's sunny grin and Erchirion's warm smile are enough to keep her from being irritated by the rather limited space she can ride in. Many of the people wave at them as they pass-familiar greetings are shouted at Eothain, a few girls giggle at Erchirion as he passes, and a number of Lothiriel's former patients yell to her as well.

"Where are you off to, my lady?" Leofa calls.

"To see more of your beautiful country!" She yells back.

A murmur of approval follows them; apparently, she's said just the right thing.

"Bema, my lady," Eothain snickers, "I am beginning to think you _do_ want a Rohirric swain."

And Lothiriel does something she certainly never could have done in Gondor: she sticks her tongue out at a Captain of Rohan, and grins when he laughs.

* * *

The light from the window has gradually faded, forcing Eomer to light a number of candles. His page had been in earlier to stoke the fire and offer him a meal; both things helping slightly to break up the monotony of the day.

There's a knock at the door and he gratefully puts down the latest missive-reports on grain collection from the East-Mark-with a sigh. "Enter," he calls, trying his best to sound pleasant.

"Bema, you sound like you've been skewered by a wild boar," Eothain says, opening the door with his usual tact. "Being cooped up all day not suiting you, sire?"

"Not in the slightest," Eomer grumbles. "Have I missed much?"

"No, my lord. The people are happy, the hall is running smoothly, Eowyn is busy attempting to learn how to sew-"

Eomer snorts; his little sister has always struggled with the domestic arts, and he does not envy the princess for being the one to teach her about needlework.

"-you did miss a most interesting ride, however," Eothain finishes.

Groaning, Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose. "What fool of a stable boy tried to ride Firefoot?"

"Oh, none of them are as stupid as that, Eomer, give them some credit," his captain says, flopping down into a chair. "No, I was referring to a different ride."

"Is this about the Gondorian princess riding about in a blue dress?" Asks Gamling from the doorway. "My Cwenhild said all the lads were talking about it, and that Merthwyn had to box some of the ears of the lasses for chattering on so."

Eomer's eyes widen. The princess couldn't have known what that would have meant-at a more formal occasion, no one would have batted an eye at her choosing to ride in the colors of her city, and Bema knows it was standard enough in Gondor, but for an unwed woman to wear blue, riding unaccompanied, on a nondescript day-

Or, perhaps, she had _not_ been unaccompanied?

"What bastard took advantage of her ignorance of our customs?" He growls, mood swiftly darkening. "Any man who presumes to begin courting her without her express permission shall answer not only to me, but to Aragorn-"

"Peace, Eomer King," Gamling interrupts. "She was well guarded, by her own brother and your lounging captain there."

Eothain offers him a cheeky grin. "We kept her between us the whole ride, my lord. No pesky stallions came about to inspect the new filly with me and the prince around."

"She is a princess, Eothain, not a brood mare," Eomer grumbles, "and you should speak of her with more respect."

"I will remind you, sire, that you once spent the entirety of a dinner in Minas Tirith referring to her as _þyrnihtu cwén_ loud enough that Eowyn had to stomp on your foot before someone asked what it meant."

Scowl deepening, Eomer turns a fierce look on his friend. "That is entirely different."

"Of course it is," Eothain says, sounding decidedly smug. "You hadn't realized you'd like to be one of the stallions chasing after that fair filly yet."

"I want no such thing," Eomer hisses, face heating in spite of himself. "She is my guest, under my protection, and any ruination that comes to her reputation while within this country's borders will reflect directly on me."

Turning back to his desk, Eomer resolves to ignore his irritating-and much mistaken-captain.

"Directly on you, eh?" Eothain asks, clearly not taking the hint. "You're certain about not wanting to be one of those stallions, sire?"

Later, Eowyn will tell him she could his cursing and Eothain's laughter all the way on the other side of the hall.

* * *

Dinner has become a much more relaxed affair now that the hall is devoid of kings and visiting war heroes. Much as he misses the light-hearted chatter of the hobbits and Aragorn's wise council, Eomer cannot help but enjoy the simplicity of a meal that he is _not_ required to dress up for.

Eowyn motions for him to sit beside her; the princess and her brother sit across from her, their backs to the fire.

"Done with kinging for the day, Eomer?" His sister asks.

"Mercifully, yes," he answers. "How have your forays into needlework been, _sweostor_?"

Eowyn scowls. "Why a high-born lady must be forced to sew is beyond me. I have not the fingers for it, I think."

"You will not have to sew much, as the Lady of Emyn Arnen," the princess says comfortingly, reaching across the table to grasp one of Eowyn's hands. "Just enough to mend a shirt or two of Faramir's, or to close up the hole in a more casual dress."

"I fear even that is out of my reach," Eowyn grumbles. "I poked my fingers more than the cloth today, I think."

Frowning, the princess turns Eowyn's hand over in hers; even Eomer can spot the small pricks of dried blood on the tips of his sister's fingers.

"Why did you not say anything?" She fusses. "Naneth sent some excellent bandages, and I have some salve that will help heal that right up-"

Eowyn chuckles, squeezing her friend's hand. "A needle prick is exactly that, Lothiriel. It scarcely bothers me at all. I am a shieldmaiden, and my hands are ungentle."

"They are gentle enough to bleed," Lothiriel grumbles.

"Best to let her tend to you," Erchirion says, smiling fondly. "She'll be in a terrible mood if she's denied her fretting."

"Erchirion!"

She blushes in the face of their laughter and Eomer feels a twinge of guilt, despite his amusement. It seems they are always laughing at her, teasing her...and while he does not doubt she can handle it, knowing what he does of her youngest brother, he does not want her to be uncomfortable again, the way she had been during the journey with his uncle's funeral bier.

"I heard you were given a tour of the land outside our gates today, my lady," he interjects.

The sunny smile he receives at the change of subject tells him he's made the right choice. "I was, my lord."

"And how do you find the Folde?"

There's a pause while the princess thinks, and the pause is long enough for Eomer to worry. Worry, because Rohan is a young country, wild and green and uncultivated, especially when compared to Gondor. Worry, because in spite of this, he's proud of his country, his people, his home, and if the princess were to disparage any part of that-

"-so beautiful it nearly took my breath away!"

Her voice interrupts his rather dark train of thought and it's only when Eowyn elbows him, sharply, that he fully returns to himself.

"What?" He asks.

"Lothiriel was just saying how beautiful she found the Folde," Eowyn says, in a distinctly amused voice.

"I did not know a place could be so green," the princess continues on, unfazed. "We have grass and trees in Dol Amroth, of course, but different kinds. And Eothain tells me the mountains are beautiful as well, and the streams in springtime, when the melts help fill them again...and lakes! We have the sea in Dol Amroth, but no lakes."

"A grave loss," Erchirion intones.

The princess elbows her brother. "As if you aren't intrigued by the sound of a lake, 'Chirion. Imagine, sailing on something that has a definitive beginning and end!"

"Lakes aren't used for sailing in the Mark," Eowyn says. "Fishing, perhaps, but we haven't the boats for sailing."

"Oh," the princess says, looking disheartened. She brightens not long after, saying, "Perhaps we can persuade Ada to send the materials to build one."

"We have taken too much from Gondor already, my lady," Eomer says.

"It would be a gift!" She argues, frowning. "Payment, for allowing Erchirion and I to intrude on your hospitality for so long."

"As if it is some burden, for the two of you to stay," Eowyn scoffs.

 _And a gift of that magnitude would not be seen as a mere token of friendship, or of gratitude,_ Eomer thinks. A sailboat-frivolous and foreign as it may be-is too large to be written off as a simple trade. It was too like the _forgifung_ ; a gift that signified the groom or bride's intentions, of bringing a bit of their old home to the new. People would talk, thinking that Erchirion perhaps intended to make himself a rival of Faramir for Eowyn's affections, or that the princess-

Eomer chokes _that_ particular thought off before he can finish it.

"It is a kind thought," he says, keeping his tone gentle. "But I am afraid no one in the Mark would know what to do with a sailboat, my lady."

"Oh," she says again, brown eyes downcast. "I suppose that is just as well; I would not know how to sail it on a lake, either."

Absurdly, he feels guilty for disappointing her. But it is the truth; boats in the Mark are used for practical purposes, like moving grain down the rivers or catching the creatures that can be found in a lake's depths.

"There is a beautiful lake near our parents' home in Aldburg," Eowyn says. "It is not a far ride from here, Lothiriel, perhaps half a day at most."

Eomer feels the familiar itch of irritation, long honed by years of his sister's less than delicate meddling. Eowyn is up to _something_ , but what, he hasn't quite worked out yet.

"Truly?"

"And there is just enough time before the harvest begins to make a journey," Eowyn says. "If my brother has no objections."

Oh, _helle_. She knows how busy he is, how much pressure he is under from the council. Even with Gondor's added support, it would be a lean season for the Mark. "Eowyn, I can scarcely leave the capitol-"

"Aldburg is hardly far," she interrupts, looking irritatingly innocent. "And do you truly think Bledgifu would forgive you if you did not come home for a visit before Yule?"

Bledgifu, Aldburg's housekeeper, had been something of a mother to them after their own mother's passing, before Theoden had claimed them for his household. She was an old battleaxe; stubborn, strong, and brave. Both he and Eowyn adored her, in spite of her admittedly dragon-like temper.

And she would _not_ be pleased if he did not visit before Yule, something Eowyn knows all too well. And Aldburg _had_ send him a missive about the training of the younger lads to replace their injured or dead fathers in the fields with the coming of the harvest...

"A few days at most is all I can spare," he grudgingly agrees.

"Must you come?" The princess asks.

He stares at her, taken aback. Surely, she was not implying she didn't want him there-

"Lothiriel, you can hardly forbid the man from visiting his own home," Erchirion says in a low tone.

The princess's eyes widen and a blush once again enters her cheeks. However irritated he is with her, he cannot deny that it is a lovely sight she makes, pink-cheeked and bathed in the firelight's glow.

"That is not what I meant," she spits, scowling at her brother. She turns back to face Eomer, a slightly softer expression on her face. "I...I do not want to be responsible from keeping you from your duties, Eomer King. My whims to see a lake are not as important as preparing your people for winter."

Her eyes are bright with understanding, with compassion. She understands, perhaps better than any other woman he knows save Eowyn, what it means to lead, to be a beacon for her people in both times of peace and upheaval. She knows it would be far more logical for him to remain, to settle more firmly into the role of kingship before he visits his familial home. The princess would not begrudge him for it, and yet…

Eomer finds that he wants to go. Oh, to see Aldburg again would be sweet, to be scolded by Bledgifu and forced to eat his weight in apple pastries would be comforting...but those are hardly the only reasons he wants to go along.

"It is not a far ride," he assures her. "And I suspect my pages will not be sad to see the back of me for a few days."

Eowyn snorts at that, Erchirion looks confused, but Lothiriel grins, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That famous temper making an appearance again?"

"As if you have any room to lecture someone about their temper," Erchirion teases, nudging his shoulder against the princess's.

"Nor do you!" She laughs. Leaning towards Eowyn, she says in a conspiratorial tone, "Do not be deceived by Erchirion's quiet demeanor; once, as children, he dunked poor Amrothos in the fountain, just for leaving ink stains on his book-"

"-which he thoroughly deserved, the little imp," Erchirion grumbles. "How do you even _know_ that story, Thiri? You could not have been more than two summers-"

"I cannot have you knowing all my secrets, 'Chirion," she teases, patting her brother's hand.

 _Now, that's a thought,_ a voice in Eomer's head whispers, _knowing this woman's secrets._

Shaking his head to clear it-and hoping Eowyn blames his suddenly red face on the ale-Eomer settles his attention on the much safer option of his plate.

* * *

There is something to be said for riding a horse-especially one as fine as her own-through the Rohirric countryside.

She does not think she could ever tire of how _green_ this place is. Oh, the sea has its own kind of beauty, one she loves dearly and finds herself missing, but Rohan is lovely too, with its rolling plains and grassy knolls.

Their party is small enough not to cause much fuss in the villages they pass; the king's banner has been stowed for the time being, in tune with the nature of their informal (and a little unnecessary, though Lothiriel would not _dare_ say so to Eowyn) venture. The king's usual guard is with them, including Eothain, who has taken up his usual mantle of entertainer with grace. She cannot make out what he is saying to Eowyn and Erchirion over the pounding of the horses' hooves, but judging by their expressions, it's something typically bawdy.

Not for the first time, she wonders idly if Rohan's former prince had been more like the boisterous captain or more like his cousin, the king. Boromir had always spoken so fondly of him. Theodred, with his easy smiles and serious eyes, with all of the grace of his Numenorean grandmother paired with the valor of the Rohirrim.

"Something troubles you," a familiar voice interrupts her thoughts.

Turning to offer him a sheepish smile, Lothiriel can only shrug. "I suppose my face really must be as open as they say, if you can see my disquiet in the middle of a gallop."

Eomer snorts. "I do not think you have a talent for lying, my lady, nor for hiding what you truly feel."

"I am afraid you are right," she agrees. "It has been the bane of my existence since childhood. Amrothos could lie better than any fisherman, and Erchirion and Elphir have long since mastered their inscrutable, princely expressions. But Naneth always knew when I'd misbehaved. Her 'glass faced girl' I have always been."

Lothiriel is rambling, embarrassed to have been so obvious and not wanting to share her train of thought. She knows from Eowyn that Eomer and Theodred were closer than brothers, the best of friends, but she does not know...she should not be the one-

"You told me once that a pain shared was a pain halved," he says, gently interrupting her thoughts. "So far I have found that to be true."

Sighing, Lothiriel nods. "I can hardly fight my own advice. I was thinking of my cousin, my lord, and yours."

One of his eyebrows raises in an incredulous expression. "An odd thing to think about, my lady."

"I was wondering if Theodred was more like Eothain or more like you," she tries to explain, well aware of the bright flush of her cheeks. "Boromir...he told us such stories of him, his princely friend from the North, and I admit, being here makes me wonder."

His silence plainly says _wonder what_ , and she answers the unspoken question. "What if. Mayhaps. Almost."

There is a swift wave of grief behind his eyes before it is suppressed, pushed down, and Lothiriel feels guilt swoop hotly in the pit of her stomach. "I am sorry, I did not mean-"

"Do not apologize," Eomer interrupts. "I have often wondered the same thing."

"Do you…" Lothiriel pauses, wondering if the question is appropriate, but this man will soon be kin, has shown himself to considerate and understanding, and she cannot think of a reason to stop herself now. And somehow, between their less-than-pleasant first meeting and now, she's come to think of Eomer as a friend. "Do you ever forget? Or think it all a bad dream, and that they will come riding in from some adventure, hale and hearty?"

His laugh is far from a happy sound. "I have wished that nearly every day since he fell."

"I have, too," she murmurs. "Faramir...Faramir was always my favorite cousin. We were closer in age, more similar in our interests...but Boromir was like a storybook prince come to life. Bold and brave and noble...he never scolded me for demanding to be carried around on his shoulders, never mocked my interest in herbs and horses, and his laugh carried down every hallway I can remember. To think him gone...cold...I…"

She has been denying herself this, Lothiriel realizes. Since that first, horrible night that she'd spent comforting Faramir, she has not allowed herself the luxury of thinking of her other cousin, of what his death truly meant to her.

"I am sorry," she manages to say, trying to hold back tears and feeling utterly, utterly foolish. "I mean to ask you of happy memories of your cousin and here I am, crying like a child-"

The sudden press of his hand on hers startles her into silence. "Your grief is not childish. If you loved your cousin half as well as I loved mine, I am amazed you have been able to keep it at bay for so long."

She squeezes his fingers, too grateful for the comfort to worry about the likely imperiousness of her actions.

 _His hands are not unlike Boromir's_ , Lothiriel thinks. Strong and gentle, all at once.

After a long pause-during which Lothiriel releases his hand before Eowyn, or worse, Erchirion, notices-she offers him a small smile, despite the likely noticeable tear-tracks on her cheeks. "Tell me of Theodred?" She asks.

"Only if you tell me more of mighty Boromir," Eomer agrees. "For I must admit, your description of storybook prince does not match well what what Theodred told me of him, my lady."

Laughing, Lothiriel concedes, "I admit that might be due to some hero worship on my part." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "And I do have one more unorthodox request."

She is rewarded with another arched eyebrow, clearly indicating for her to proceed.

"I have never been one for titles, especially not with friends," Lothiriel admits, "and if it is not too much to ask, perhaps you could call me by name and I can call you by yours? Eowyn and I have not used each other's titles since the second time we met, after all."

There is a sudden silence and Lothiriel worries that she's offended him; he is a king and perhaps his title has more importance here than it would in Gondor. A quick look to her left reveals his almost slack-jawed stare, something hot in his eyes that she does not recognize. It makes her throat dry, though she could not say _why_.

"If you are certain," he pauses, seeming to steel himself a little, "Lothiriel."

"I am most certain, Eomer," she says, keeping her tone light despite the sudden-and irrational-pounding of her heart.

Mercifully, Gamling appears before she can think _too_ hard about what has her so flustered, and any discussion of their respective cousins is tabled for another time. Aldburg lies less than a mile ahead of them.

* * *

Aldburg is smaller than Edoras, but older, more imposing.

"It means 'old fortress'," Eothain explains. "Not too terribly creative, was Eorl the Young."

"Minas Tirith means 'tower of guard'," Lothiriel counters, "we were hardly original either."

Erchirion rolls his eyes, reaching up to help Lothiriel down from Niphredil's back. "Your loyalty towards our people astounds me, little flower."

"I am only being honest!" She protests, pinching her brother's arm. Erchirion has been out of sorts since they set off from Edoras this morning, and she cannot fathom why. Usually her brother _leaps_ at the chance for a long ride. Perhaps it is the weather; September in Rohan is far from true cold, but it lacks the warmth of a sea breeze the way they are accustomed to in Dol Amroth.

"Honesty will take you far in the Mark," Eowyn murmurs, coming to loop her arm through Lothiriel's. "And even further with Bledgifu."

Lothiriel has heard tale of Aldburg's formidable housekeeper-where Merthwyn had been all bluster and no bite, Bledgifu will be harder to win over, if Eothain and Lisswyn are to be believed.

Meanwhile, their party has acquired a rather large and curious audience. A passel of children-blonde-haired and freckled to the last-cluster near boldest of the bunch, a girl that scarcely clears the the captain's waist, tugs on his arm. Pointing at Erchirion and then Lothiriel, she asks a question, but the Rohirric is so accented that Lothiriel cannot begin to puzzle it out.

" _Aye, lýtling_ ," is Eothain's response, " _sé ganet breguweard ac glómmung cwén_."

Lothiriel quirks an eyebrow at this; that is the third time Eothain's leveled such a name at her, but she is no closer to understanding it now than she had been before they'd left Edoras. Her train of thought is interrupted as the children-girls mostly, peppered through with a few small boys-approach her, shyly offering her flowers and bits of string.

"Oh, thank you," she says, kneeling to receive their presents. Her tone is clear enough, but she would like to say it in their own tongue. "Eowyn, how do I-"

" _Ic þancie þē_ ," Eowyn murmurs, smiling as she accepts her own flowers and twine.

Lothiriel mimics her, as best she can, but a few of the giggles the children give indicates her likely horrid pronunciation. Eothain's following wince more than gives it away. "You'll need a bit of practice before you're fit for anyone other than the little one's ears, my lady."

"We can find a tutor for you when we return to Edoras," Eowyn promises. "It would be useful, for you to be able to communicate with everyone without Lisswyn or I as a translator."

"I would like that," Lothiriel agrees. "But do not think that this little vacation means we can slack on your lessons in Gondorian womanhood, Eowyn."

Grinning, Eowyn pinches her side. "I had no such thoughts."

Rolling her eyes at her friend, Lothiriel allows herself to be led from where a small army of grooms and stable boys are tending to the horses to the steps leading into the main house. It is exactly as Eowyn has described it, down to the last wooden post and the intricate carvings of horses along the front columns. Someone-Gamling, Lothiriel supposes-gives a great call from his horn, and the door to the house swings open. The lady who emerges can only be Bledgifu-her hair is still auburn, her figure sturdy and thick, and her face is composed in the warm afternoon sunlight.

" _Westu hal, Eomer Cynnig_ ," she says, offering the traditional mead and bread to her king. Eomer strides forward, serious looking until the mead has been drank and the bread eaten. Then, he sweeps the older woman into a hug while the surrounding crowd laughs. Eowyn drops Lothiriel's arm with a gentle squeeze before joining her brother and housekeeper in an exuberant embrace.

Eothain is summoned next, with Gamling hot on his heels, and Lothiriel can hear the older woman teasingly scolding them for how skinny they are, for the scruffiness of their beards.

"And who else lingers at the door?" The housekeeper finally asks, peering around Eothain to eye Lothiriel and Erchirion.

"Prince Erchirion and Princess Lothiriel, of Dol Amroth," Eomer says. "They are Eowyn and I's guests."

"Both are cousin to my intended," Eowyn explains, "and I consider them dear friends."

The housekeeper's eyes are shrewd as she looks them over; Lothiriel does not feel particularly welcomed, in spite of the mead and bread offered to her.

"You had not mentioned your intended was of Gondor, Eowyn," Bledgifu says, a reproach in her tone. "Is Stoningland to rob us of another one of our treasures?"

Lothiriel can feel Erchirion's arm tighten under her own and she wills what she hopes is a passably pleasant expression on her face. The wry look Eomer levels in her direction likely means she has failed.

"I go freely and happily to Gondor, Bledgifu," Eowyn answers, anger evident in her own response. "My intended is the best of men, and his kin no less wonderful."

"Surely you do not think I could have been persuaded to part with her for less," Eomer says.

"I do not question your judgment, my king," is the woman's formal response. "Inside, the lot of you. Esrun will show you all to your rooms."

Lothiriel can feel the older woman's eyes following her as the group moves inside, and wonders if it may not have been best to stay in Edoras after all.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Aaaaand scene change! We'll be seeing a little bit more of Aldburg (which is the traditional royal seat of Rohan) in the coming chapter. And much as I'd love to have Lothiriel have a smooth trip, with everyone in Rohan liking her, it's frankly unrealistic. Rohan and Gondor have been at odds-well, if not at odds, at least not friendly-with each other for generations, and I imagine a number of Rohirric people aren't too keen about Eowyn marrying into their very-recent ally's nobility, nor about two members of the royal house of Dol Amroth spending such a long time in the country.

Also, the dress color thing is historically accurate. Light blue dresses indicated a "young marriageable woman" in some places, while darker blues were worn by lovers to indicate fidelity. The meanings varied across the medieval period and into the Renaissance, but I've decided to work both implications into this story, for reasons ;) We'll cycle back to other color meanings in later chapters as well.

On a more romance-related note: we're getting there, my pretties, slowly but surely.

Terms for this chapter:

 _Suilannad,_ _meldis:_ Sindarian for 'hello, dear one'

 _þyrnihtu cwén_ : prickly princess

 _forgifung:_ nuptial gift; a gift that was given before a wedding

 _Aye, lýtling_ , _sé ganet breguweard ac glómmung cwén:_ Yes, little one, this is the Swan Prince and Lady Twilight

 _Ic þancie þē:_ I thank you


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Alright, so I'm going to go ahead and address some of the reviews from last week! Firstly, thanks to everyone for pointing out my mistaken labeling of Minas Tirith as meaning 'white city'; I'll admit I had just rewatched the movies before my last edits on the past chapter and didn't do my due diligence before uploading! It's now been corrected to its actual meaning (as so many of you pointed out) to 'tower of guard'.

Secondly, just to clarify for **AdriKenobi** and anyone else who may have been confused about my point of Rohan and Gondor being at odds: I'm basing this bit off of Theoden's reluctance to call on Gondor for aid, and the fact that Sauron and Saruman 100% undermined the relationship between the two countries to weaken both of them during the War of the Ring. Obviously the two countries have been allies for generations, but I think it's obvious (especially in the movies) that the relationship between the two has weakened/cooled in more recent years. Still allies, yes, but not super friendly, I think. Eomer and Aragorn's close friendship is going to do a lot to encourage healing between the two countries, but as I've highlighted in this story so far, there are numerous cultural differences that may cause some sticking points.

Thirdly, for my dear **Avonmora** who has been one of my most consistent and kindest reviewers throughout this entire journey, I just wanted to clarify on the number of OCs/canon characters I've included to hopefully make everything a little clearer. I know I've introduced a number of them, but I promise they all serve a purpose. Hopefully, by putting faces to the names and explaining their respective relationships will help y'all keep them straight in your minds! I don't want to clog up the pre-chapter notes too much, so I'll go into more detail about the extraneous cast at the end of the chapter :)

And now, forward! Here be cranky housekeepers, lakeside adventures, and a discussion of wedding traditions, in both Gondor and Rohan.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN**

* * *

Bledgifu does not like Lothiriel.

Which, in all fairness, Eomer hadn't either, the first time he'd met her. She had been-or had at least seemed to be-badgering Eowyn, short-tempered, and all together righteous in a way that had made his blood boil.

But that was _months_ ago now, and first impressions are not always true. Lothiriel is hot-tempered, certainly, but also loyal, kind, and intelligent: all traits Bledgifu has always professed to admire in women in the past. And from what he's seen, the princess has been nothing but unfailingly polite and a little bit baffled in the face of Bledgifu's unwavering sternness.

It is enough to drive him mad after just two days.

"Bledgifu," he says finally, after witnessing her staring at the princess with an icy sort of disdain she'd once reserved for bloody _Wormtongue_. "Enough."

She raises an eyebrow at him; king or not, this woman has seen him from infancy to manhood, and has never responded to orders well. "My king is displeased with me?"

"Confused," he admits. "Has the princess done something to...offend you?"

"Not in particular," Bledgifu says with a shrug. "Only that I dislike the thought of her molding our Eowyn into someone she is not."

That draws a surprised laugh out of him. "Is that what you think is happening?"

"I heard mentions of etiquette lessons and _dancing_ ," the older woman spits, frowning. "For Eowyn! Stripping her of title of shieldmaiden is bad enough, but to expect her to be a dainty, soft thing like that girl-child there-"

Eomer stops her with a hand, torn between amusement and irritation. "Bledgifu, Eowyn has asked for these lessons herself, so that she might better adjust to her new city and role. And the princess is as delicate as Eothain, despite her stature. There is no molding or changing occurring here, I assure you."

The housekeeper's frown doesn't lessen. "That is what _she_ says, certainly, but I am not convinced."

"She has earned Eowyn's friendship and mine," Eomer argues. "Something neither of us give away lightly."

Bledgifu's expression softens and she squeezes his hand. "I know your hearts, _mīn cild_. They are more open than you believe, and I would not suffer anyone to take advantage of that."

She means well, the old battleaxe, and Eomer lets the matter rest. The princess had proven her true character in time, to both his men and himself; why should it be different with Bledgifu?

* * *

They _finally_ venture to the lake on the third day of their trip to Aldburg. The excursion could not have come quickly enough; Bledgifu's coldness towards Lothiriel did not seem to be thawing, even in the face of Eowyn's entreaties on her behalf.

"I have never known her to be so harsh," Eowyn complains on their ride from the city to the beginnings of the lake-country. "I have to apologize again, Lothiriel-and to you, Erchirion-"

"We are accustomed to censure well enough," Erchirion snaps, temper short as it has been in the past few days. He spurs his horse ahead to catch up with Eothain and Eomer, leaving Lothiriel mortified in his wake.

"I am so sorry, Eowyn," she manages to say. "I do not what has gotten into him since we left Edoras, but he has been an absolute _Orc_."

"Perhaps he has left something behind of great value," Eowyn says, something sly in her tone.

Brow crinkling, Lothiriel ponders for a moment; she cannot think of anything so great of value that could have been left in Edoras to her brother that it would turn him from charming prince to prickly arse in the span of three days. "Perhaps," she answers instead.

All thoughts of her usually even-keel brother's behavior vanish with their arrival to the lake. Eowyn had not exaggerated; it was beautiful, with deep blue water, ringed with trees on the shore furthest from them, and grainy light-brown sand all along the shoreline.

"Sweet Elbereth," Lothiriel murmurs, earning a laugh from Eowyn.

A few ladies from Aldburg have joined them-Esrun, Bledgifu's second in command, a cousin of Eothain's, and Sunngifu, Bledgifu's daughter-as well as a number of lads.

"And you've never seen a lake before, my lady?" Sunngifu asks.

The daughter is infinitely preferable to her mother, for all of the flirtatious smiles she keeps shooting in both Erchirion and Eomer's directions.

"No, just the sea and a number of rivers I'm afraid," Lothiriel admits.

"Well, a lake has its benefits, to be certain," Esrun assures her. "Picnics, for one."

"Swimming, for the other," Eothain's cousin, Rosefled, giggles.

Lothiriel arches an eyebrow at that. "Surely _we_ will not be swimming."

"No, not us," Eowyn says, smirking again.

That tone tends to bode very ill for all involved, and Lothiriel quickly turns towards the safer topic of finding their agreed upon picnic sight.

The meal Bledgifu has packed them is a number of Rohirric delicacies-goat cheese has become something of a favorite of hers, though she still shies away from the salty eels-and the ladies settle down into a comfortable conversation. Lothiriel can hear the men shouting and laughing in the distance, but no one seems overly concerned by it, and so she assumes it's a natural part of this sort of trip.

Eowyn has apparently mentioned Lothiriel's now infamous ride in a blue dress, and she finds herself besieged with numerous-but thankfully harmless-questions regarding the fact.

"And all the ladies wear blue in your city? Truly?" Esrun asks.

"I'm afraid it's a rather dull color in Dol Amroth," Lothiriel promises. "And we would have unapproved marriages occurring every hour if the color meant the same there as it does in the Mark."

"We must be careful when sending our riders to your city then, my lady," Sunngifu says with a smirk. "Or you may find your sea-side town populated entirely by descendants of Eorl."

Laughing, they all share stories of dress mishaps for a time. Lothiriel stands, feeling oddly stiff and a little warm in the September sunshine. "I may walk to the water to cool off my feet; would anyone like to come?"

The other women wave her off, though Eowyn gives her specific instructions to keep to the right side of the shore. Nodding, Lothiriel begins her short trek, pausing to toe her shoes off before sinking her feet into the damp sand. Despite the unfamiliarity of the lake in front of her, this, the sand between her toes and the beginnings of the cool water lapping at her feet, feels like home.

She's just managed to lift her dress-not blue this time, thanks to a loan from Eowyn-enough to keep it from getting wet as she stands ankle deep in the water. Curious fish swim over the exposed skin of her feet, and she cannot help but laugh and wish that Alphros was here to enjoy such a sensation with her-when a familiar voice calls her name.

"Thiri!" Cries Erchirion. "Imagine what we could do with a boat on water like this, eh?"

Laughing, she turns to face her brother, only to have her mouth fall open in shock. Erchirion is _shirtless_ , standing knee deep in the water, his hair plastered messily against his forehead.

"Erchirion!" She squeaks. "Where-where is your shirt?"

"On the shore, safe and sound," he assures her. "Naneth would murder me if anything were to happen to it."

"Likely so," Lothiriel manages to say. "But _why_ are you shirtless, brother?"

"We were swimming, of course," Erchirion says, gesturing down at the water. "We have never swam in shirts before, Thiri."

While this is all true, and she has seen her brothers-and a number of their friends-similarly clothed while in the ocean, it is different now, because this is _Rohan_ and Erchirion is in a _lake_ and-

"Are all Gondorian princes as pretty as you, my lord?" Sunngifu's flirtatious voice cuts across Lothriel's panic. "If so, I can see why Eowyn has lost her heart to one."

The other women have joined her, now, and much to Lothiriel's horror, she sees Eothain's mass of red hair rounding the corner, followed by a number of other figures. All, are of course, shirtless.

"There you are, Erchirion!" Eothain yells. "Couldn't stay away from the ladies, could you?"

Erchirion kicks water at him while Eothain and the other men guffaw.

"And where have you left your king, Eothain?" Eowyn asks, hands on her hips, but a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Hopefully not submerged under a rock somewhere at the bottom of the lake!"

"You wound me, my lady," Eothain cries, hand pressed to his heart in a dramatic fashion. "As if I would ever abandon my king in such a perilous place."

 _Where is Eomer?_ Lothiriel wonders.

And then she can no longer wonder, for the man in question appears, looking like something out of a sea-story of old. Shirtless, like the rest, his long hair flowing not unlike water itself around his shoulders, his king's marks only brought into stronger relief against the blue of the water and the bronze of his skin-by the Valar, his skin is nearly as dark as hers, but _how_? For Eowyn was fair, pale, even, but she would be hard-pressed to call Eomer thus. He is well-muscled and as broad-shouldered as ever, striking a vastly more impressive figure emerging from the lake than any of his companions. The markings inked into his skin do not look nearly as painful as they had the day of the coronation; indeed, Lothiriel has a sudden urge to trace the path of those winding tattoos with the tips of her fingers-

"-thiriel?"

Gulping and feeling strangely weak-kneed, Lothiriel turns her almost certainly red face back towards her fellow ladies.

"Are you feeling alright?" Esrun asks. "Your face looks as if you've been standing in front of an oven!"

"It is likely the heat," Rosefled fusses, bending to dip one of the leftover napkins from lunch in the water before pressing it gently to Lothiriel's forehead. "There, is that better?"

"M-much," she manages to stutter.

"Perhaps you'd care for a dip, my lady!" One of the men yells, earning a swift cuff from Eothain.

"As if you lot are worthy of sharing this lake with the princess!" He reprimands.

Lothiriel starts at the sudden presence of Eowyn at her side; her friend slips her arm through hers and offers a sympathetic look. "Are you over-warm, my friend?"

Lothiriel _thinks_ she hears Sunngifu mutter something that sounds suspiciously like 'not from the weather', but she ignores that, trying to draw up a passably calm expression. "No, I am fine, the water is quite cool."

Nonetheless, Eowyn draws her away into the shade of a nearby tree, where Rosefled continues to fret over the flush in her cheeks.

Lothiriel keeps her eyes resolutely turned away from the lake until the call is given for them to depart.

* * *

To say that Eomer had been displeased by how thing had gone at the lake would be a massive understatement. Oh, the day had started pleasant enough, and it gratified him to see that the men and women of Aldburg did not possess Bledgifu's reticence towards their Gondorian guests. The water had been cold, but not awful, and it had been all too easy to agree to Eothain's suggestion for a quick swim.

The swim had quickly turned into an all and out brawl. Erchirion had been a surprisingly agile ally, with his long history of swimming in Dol Amroth's waters better preparing him for a round of splashing than any other man present.

Which is why Eomer had not worried when the Dol Amrothian had disappeared; it was unlikely that such an experienced swimmer would be in any sort of danger in the calm waters of the lake. Eothain, however, had not been so convinced, and had easily persuaded the other men to look for their erstwhile companion.

It soon becomes obvious what had drawn Erchirion's attention; his sister, wading ankle-deep along the lake's shoreline. Eomer had been too far out to make out her face properly, but not far enough to hear one of the men-Folca-all but _invite_ the princess to swim with them. Even Eowyn at her most reckless would have refused such a bold proposition, and Eomer makes no attempt to hide his displeasure as the men pull their shirts back on.

"She is not of the Mark, Folca, and likely thinks us little more than barbarians, after a comment like that," he growls, fixing the man with a stern look.

There is a sudden snort from Eothain, and Eomer turns to give his captain a poisonous look.

"What," Eomer hisses, "is so funny?"

"I do not think it was the comment that had her so flustered, sire," Eothain says, towelling off his mop of bright red hair.

There a few murmurs of agreement, and Eomer is suddenly very glad that Erchirion has dressed himself already and wandered off to find to find the ladies.

"Well, what then?"

"Your tattoos, Eomer King," pipes in Hildred, another of Eothain's cousins. "Perhaps she has never seen the like?"

"It's the man who makes the marks, Hil," Eothain guffaws, throwing an arm around his cousin's thin shoulders. "And if we are barbarians, Eomer, I suspect the princess would like nothing better than to tame at least one I can think of-"

He punches Eothain-hard-in the shoulder, remembering his promise to Wilfled not to break his captain's nose again, and he is loathe to anger Eothain's small but surprisingly strong wife.

" _Esol_ ," he hisses. Eothain simply continues to laugh, most of them men with him.

"Surely there are worse thing than to be admired by such a lady," Caedda chuckles.

Eomer fixes him with a look that has sent many a man running, and takes great pleasure in the sudden whiteness of his guardsman's face.

* * *

Dinner is a raucous affair, the day's ride and the swim having put everyone into a fine mood. Bledgifu does not disappoint and she's put special effort into making a number of both his and Eowyn's favorite foods. The ale is a bit heavier, the mead sweeter; they're closer to the mountains here, in Aldburg, than they are in Edoras. A part of him will always consider this city-this keep-home, but he does not long for it, the way he had as a child when his parents were freshly gone and Theoden still little more than a stranger to him.

Theodred, though, had eased their transition to Edoras more than any comfort foods or well-meant words. Twelve years his senior and Crown-Prince besides, Theodred had always been something of a god to Eomer before they'd come to Edoras. Getting to know the real Theodred had been infinitely more satisfying than the hero-worship of a little boy.

"What are you thinking of, Eomer?" Eowyn asks, dropping into the seat beside him.

"Theodred," he admits. "And how much he would have enjoyed today."

She squeezes his hand. "He would have."

They sit in contemplative silence for a moment; with food in his belly and some of the people he loves most in this world at his side, it is hard to tend towards melancholy. So, instead, he opts for teasing.

"And what of your Steward?" He asks, nudging his sister's shoulder. "I noticed that our poor riders are venturing to Gondor's borders nearly twice a week, carrying letters, and not all of them from Aragorn."

A look of happiness slides over Eowyn's face. "He is as almost as wonderful in his letters as he is in person."

Eomer has never seen his sister smitten before-oh, there have been flirtations in their youth, boys she had fancied in passing, but this is something different. Something true. He cannot imagine giving his blessing to any man who did not truly love his sister as she is, and he knows Eowyn well enough to know she would never compromise her core self for any man. That she has remained this happy-this in love-after a few months separated from Faramir only serves to convince him further that she has made the right choice.

"I am sorry to have separated you, then," he says, squeezing her hand.

He had not been, at the beginning. Coming back to Edoras without Eowyn had been unfathomable, but he sees it now, how selfish he had been to only announce their betrothal instead of pushing for a wedding.

Eowyn tuts, rolling her eyes. "As if you could have survived those first few weeks without me. Not to mention the coronation. No," she sighs, the dreamy expression returning to her face, "I am not sorry. Faramir and I will have our whole lives together, after all."

The cynical part of him, the part that still wonders if Theodred would not have been the better king after all, wants to remind her that the future is not guaranteed, even if the War is over and a relative peace lies over the land, that she should not be so certain.

But he cannot-could not-say that to her when she looks so happy, so at peace. Peace is something he has always wanted for his wild, fierce little sister.

"You will," he says instead. "Has there been any discussion of what your wedding marks will be?"

Wedding marks are something that every boy and girl in the Mark dreams of; they bond a married couple together much in the same way a king's marks bind him to his country. They are a serious commitment, agreed upon by both parties in design, and are displayed with pride in the warmer months.

Eowyn frowns, thinking. "He has not mentioned them, and I had not thought to...Erchirion!"

The prince's head pops up from a few seats away, where he has been deep in conversation with Eothain and Lothiriel. "Yes, my lady?"

She motions him over. Eothain, as ever, cannot be left out of the fun, trails along after, all but dragging the princess along behind him.

"I have a question for you, and perhaps for you as well, Lothiriel," Eowyn says while they seat themselves.

"We are here to serve, my lady," Erchirion says, something like teasing in his voice.

Eomer quirks an eyebrow at that; the man is in a better mood than he has been these past three days. Turning his questioning look towards Lothiriel, he is somewhat surprised to find her staring resolutely at a spot just passed his shoulder, her face pink. Eothain and Caedda's words from earlier float back to him and suddenly he finds himself wanting to test the truth of them.

But then Eowyn is speaking again, asking, "What are Gondor's standards regarding wedding marks? Faramir has not said, and I must confess that I find it a bit odd, with the wedding so quickly approaching-"

Erchirion and Lothiriel now wear identical expressions of confusion.

"Wedding marks?" Erchirion asks. "What do you mean?"

They've attracted an audience now, and every Eorlingas exchanges a bemused look.

"Perhaps they have some fancy Elvish name for it, in Dol Amroth," Eothain offers gamely, rolling up his sleeve. "Take a gander, prince, and tell me what you make of it."

Eothain's tattoo has become something of a running joke-not because it lacks beauty, or that he would ever do anything to lessen its value-but because there is no man more willing to flaunt his wedding mark. At every opportunity, Eothain will show off the mark with the glee of a green youth in the flush of first love. Which, he is, in a way; Wilfled had been the first girl he'd ever loved, and would be the last.

It's a pretty enough mark, the dark red of Aldburg's banners, where both he and Wilfled are from. It winds around his bicep in gentle waves, mimicking the waters of the lake where Wilfled had dunked him in and then kissed him for the first time.

Eomer has heard the story enough times that he can nearly recite it himself, and is grateful for Lothiriel's question interrupting Eothain's thousandth retelling.

"It is lovely, but what does it mean?"

That sets the room buzzing; even children no higher than their parents' knees know what the marks mean.

"The marks are a symbol of our wedding vows," Eowyn explains, though her brow is furrowed as well. "It's how we show that we are promised, to our spouse, to the children we create, in both this life and the next."

Erchirion looks thoughtful. "I am afraid we have no such inkings in Gondor, though I would say that is our loss."

The murmurs only grow.

"What do you do to signify your promise to each other then?" Someone, Eomer suspects Rosefled, asks.

"Perhaps nothing, if marks are not deemed worthy enough-" Bledgifu mutters.

"We wear rings," Lothiriel interjects, eyes blazing; it is obvious she did not miss the housekeeper's less than polite murmur.

"Rings?" Esrun asks. "Can you not take them off?"

"You can, but most do not," Lothiriel explains, looking slightly calmer. "They're made of precious metal, usually, and given at the time of the wedding. Some are passed down from generation to generation, signifying the family's approval of one's potential spouse."

There are a few more murmurs; confusion, mostly, but a few voices of interest. Metal and precious stones are rare in the Mark, and not as valued as horses or food, but it would make sense that the ever-proper Gondorians preferred a symbol of wealth instead of practicality.

"But you can take them off, should you so choose," Bledgifu says, looking thunderous. "What is to stop some lord-or lady-from removing the obvious evidence of their marriage, and making the most of its absence?"

There are a few laughs, a few gasps, but Eomer cares only for Lothiriel, whose face goes white and then almost as rapidly, a dark red.

"My mother has not taken her ring off once-through childbearing, through healing, through war and loss and bloodshed. If that does not show devotion to the vows she made at her wedding, I do not know what does," she hisses.

"You speak of your mother, my lady," Bledgifu says, arching an eyebrow-never before has Eomer cursed the housekeeper's tongue, but he does now, knowing the venom she is about to direct is undeserved-"but what of your father?"

Eomer cannot help the look of horror that crosses his face at what Bledgifu suggests with such rancor. One of the greatest shames an Eorlingas could face is the public ceremony that occurred if one was caught breaking their marriage vows. The wedding mark of the offending party would be altered before the entire town, and their wronged spouse could choose to dissolve their union on the spot, depending on the severity of the crime. Infidelity in either partner was not tolerated, and a man could not raise his hand to his wife without threat of the _tōberstan_. To insinuate that Gondorians view marriage as less than anything other than a sacred vow is both insulting _and_ scandalous.

Lothiriel's hands slamming on the table startle nearly everyone, and she draws herself to her full height, glaring fiercely at Bledgifu. "My father would have tattooed every inch of his body to show his love for my mother, if that was our way. I am sorry if you think a mark is the only way of showing love for another, but I have learned that there is more to love than words and symbols."

The room is silent.

"Lothiriel," Eowyn starts, looking as horrified as Eomer feels; Bema above, it is enough to insult the princess, but to bring Imrahil into it-!

The sound-her name-seems to bring some noise back into the room. Bledgifu murmurs a somewhat sincere apology. Eothain hurriedly calls for a round of ale. Erchirion reaches for his sister's arm, but she is swinging herself over the bench, resolutely not meeting anyone's eyes.

"I need some air," she says, her voice wavering only slightly, "excuse me."

And then she is gone, in a whirl of skirts and brown hair.

Eomer is on his feet before he can stop himself-what he intends to do, he's far from certain, but he cannot let the insult stand, cannot let her rush off and be alone after being dealt such a blow- _Bema_ , the pain in her expression-

Eowyn's hand on his arm stops him and he turns to give her a blank look. _Surely_ she was not about to scold him for going after-

"Let me go," Eowyn says, voice pitched low. "It was my questions that caused this entire mess to begin with."

Eomer allows himself to be pushed back into his seat, turning his attention toward the obviously fuming Erchirion. Eowyn squeezes the other man's arm before rising and hurrying off down the hallway that the princess had previously vanished down.

"Erchirion," Eomer starts, unsure of how to speak to the other man. They are friendly enough, and have never had any trouble discussing horses or war stories, but this is something else entirely.

Erchirion waves his hand at him, taking an angry sip of ale from the mug Eothain has hastily set down before him. "I understand that our customs are different, Eomer King, but the rings we give in Gondor are considered no less binding than the marks your people bear. And to insult my father thus-"

The dark haired man cuts himself off, knuckles white around his mug.

"Bledgifu will apologize," Eomer assures him. The housekeeper has been given leeway in the past, but this was too far, even for all of the love he bears for her.

Erchirion snorts. "What good will that do? She is respected here, her opinions valued. If she says that Gondorians spit in the face of marriage, no amount of goodwill towards me or my sister will be enough to sway your people's opinions."

Eomer stares at the other man. There is some tinge of bitterness in his tone, some sort of hurt that did not spring from the insult to his parents.

 _Why would a Gondorian prince worry if the people of the Mark think him unfit to wed?_ Eomer wonders.

"Bledgifu is only one woman, Erchirion," Eothain says suddenly. "Her influence is not as vast as you may think."

"It is large enough," Erchirion snaps. He finishes his ale and stands. "I think I shall retire for the evening. Good night."

Watching the prince leave, Eomer cannot help but wonder if any and all diplomatic-not to mention more personal-relationships with the royal House of Dol Amroth have just been undone in the span of minutes.

The thought bothers him more than he cares to admit.

* * *

She knows she is frightening the stable boys, but Lothiriel cannot bring herself to stop. The anger coiling inside of her is unlike anything she has ever experienced-worse than when that _bastard_ of an errand boy had called Alycia a savage, worse than when a group of Minas Tirithian nobles had tried to put a hot iron to Amrothos's curling hair, worse than when Denethor had called Faramir worthless in front of the entirety of the court-and so she must hit _something_. The fence post will suffice for now, since she cannot bludgeon Bledgifu with a stick.

She is untrained in any sort of footwork or sword play, but she knows enough to rattle the fence post, to make her arms ache with each stroke.

Lothiriel is accustomed to scorn, to censure. But to insult Ada-and Naneth, and their marriage-Elbereth, it is more than she can bear, to hear the people she loves most in the world slandered by a bitter, uninformed-

Dimly, she's aware of the tread of someone's feet. With one final ringing blow, she lowers the stick to her side before turning. With her luck, it would be Eomer, and she would be accused of attacking royalty on their own land.

 _If Gondorians are capable of infidelity, they would certainly be capable of murder, or at least that's what the people of Rohan would believe_ , Lothiriel thinks, unkindly.

"I see the boys were wise enough not to give you live steel," Eowyn says.

"Fortunately for the fence post, yes," Lothiriel answers, finally relinquishing her make-shift sword.

Eowyn hesitates.

Lothiriel does not think she has ever seen her friend so unsure before; angry, joyful, teasing, stubborn, brash, yes, all of those emotions, but never _uncertain_.

"If you are thinking of a way to apologize to me, you need not," Lothiriel offers, trying and likely failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "The fault does not lie with you, Eowyn."

Eowyn's eyes flick up to hers and Lothiriel is somewhat relieved at the spark of irritation she sees there. "I offer no apology. I am merely trying to think of a way to express how little I agree with Bledgifu's points. Rings, marks; no symbol on earth can make a faithful spouse out of the faithless, and certainly the ability to remove one's ring does not make a person inherently more predisposed towards infidelity."

Lothiriel can feel some of the tension leech out of her spine. "I only wish I had expressed myself half as well before running out here like a spoilt child."

Eowyn shakes her head, stepping closer to take Lothiriel's hands in hers. "You were attacked, unjustly, for a tradition your country-and your family-holds dear. No one can blame you for wanting to be away from a person who has just insulted you in nearly every way." Eowyn pauses, contemplating. "If someone had said such a thing about marks to me in Gondor, I think I should have slapped the silly bint across the face and felt no regret for it. At least you prefer to take your anger out on fence-posts."

Startled into laughter at the image Eowyn presents, Lothiriel squeezes her friend's fingers. "Ah, the Wild Shieldmaiden of the North, laying waste to Minas Tirith's court! Faramir would likely swoon."

Eowyn cannot stifle her own amusement; the thought of Faramir, level-headed and noble, falling over in a faint at her defending her country's honor was a thing of hilarity, to say the least.

Once their laughter has passed, though, the gravity of the situation in the hall slowly creeps back in. Lothiriel, though cheered by her friend's defense, cannot help but feel...stung. Such censure and scorn she had tolerated in Minas Tirith without complaint-though certainly not over Gondor's wedding bands-but in Rohan, she thought she had found somewhere she was welcome. Somewhere where she...fit, in a way that only her family's rooms in Dol Amroth or quiet nights spent in Minas Tirith's library with Faramir had made her feel before.

Eowyn's expression drains of mirth when she says as much. "Lothiriel, you do fit! Surely Bledgifu's words are not enough to convince you otherwise!"

"You cannot understand," Lothiriel murmurs, eyes filling with tears in spite of herself, "you cannot _possibly_ understand what it means to be made to feel so different. So...other. Even amongst many of own countrymen I am considered an oddity, and then I came here and I thought...I had hoped-"

Eowyn's sudden hug is nearly bruising, but Lothiriel welcomes it, tucking her face against her friend's shoulder.

"You will always have a place with me and mine," Eowyn hisses fiercely, "I have told you before that I consider you kin, and no difference in marital traditions or color of skin will change that."

"But what of the rest of Aldburg, the rest of Rohan?" Lothiriel sniffles miserably. "Surely, they will think me and Erchirion-if not all of Gondor-strange foreigners for not partaking in wedding marks-"

"Just as some Gondorians thought my brother and I uncouth savages from the North," Eowyn insists. "It does not mean they are right, and nor does it mean that your traditions are any less valuable. People will see your true worth, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, and they will love you for it. As I do, as your other friends do. Anyone else scarcely matters."

Lothiriel nods, feeling comforted. "When did you become so wise, Eowyn of Rohan?"

"When I met a very kind man in the Houses of Healing, who showed me that things need not be as black and white as I perceived them," Eowyn says, gently brushing a tear from Lothiriel's cheek.

They are silent for a moment while Eowyn allows her to gather her composure.

"Faramir would not be opposed to them," Lothiriel says suddenly.

"Opposed to what, dear one?"

"The wedding marks," she explains, smiling slightly when Eowyn blinks, clearly surprised. "I suspect he would saw his own arm off if it would please you, and this seems like much less dire option."

"But it is not Gondor's way-"

"But you are not of Gondor," Lothiriel interrupts. "And though I know he would very much like to give you one of Aunt Findulas's rings, I do not see why he would refuse the mark of marriage that is more familiar to you as well."

Eowyn gapes at her for a minute. "I had not considered-both! To have both!"

Lothiriel laughs, mopping at her surely dripping nose. "Then no one in Middle Earth could consider themselves as bound in love as you two."

"Both," Eowyn repeated, as if in a daze. "Lothiriel, you are a marvel."

Lothiriel flushes, elbowing her friend gently. "Hardly! I am merely working with the facts as they are. Why not please both parties, both countries? Surely no Rohir would oppose to a sign that your husband is overly devoted to you."

Eowyn seems not to hear her, suddenly taking Lothiriel's hand and all but dragging her back towards the hall. "You must help me with designs! It should honor both Gondor and the Mark, perhaps mine in the grey of Emyn Arnen, and Faramir's the green of Edoras-"

Smiling, Lothiriel allows her friend's excitement to wash away the bitterness of the earlier part of the evening; let Bledgifu spit all the venom she wished, she would not take Eowyn and Faramir's happiness away from them.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ok, so there's a toooooon of stuff to unpack in this chapter, so let's begin.

Keeping with the idea of tattoos being an important part of Rohirric culture that I introduced in earlier chapters, I think it's fitting that Rohan also has marks for marriage purposes. They're a very active people, and I definitely think jewelry would be more of a thing for the nobility/royalty than for the everyday farmhands or midwives or what-have-you. Rings would be waaaay too easy to lose during the harvest or in battle, and given the importance placed on marriage, it makes sense that their culture would rely on permanent markings to indicate the seriousness of being wed to someone. In this instance, wedding marks vary by couple, depending on what region of Rohan they're from, what social rank they hold, and specific events of the couple's courtship. Wedding marks are on the man's upper left arm, and the woman's upper right arm, signifying that they are two halves of a whole once married.

Gondor, conversely, is a much wealthier society on the whole. Wedding rings are both a symbol of commitment and economic status. The higher-born the man and woman, the more ostentatious the ring-or at least, the better quality of materials that make it. Family traditions are important here too; even in arranged marriages, it's traditional to pass along a family ring, to signify that your new spouse's family approves of the match.

Bledgifu's dislike of Lothiriel comes in two parts: 1) she was never fond of Morwen Queen (Theoden's mother, Eowyn and Eomer's grandmother) who is the only Gondorian noble she's ever met and 2) she's not a big fan of the idea of her essentially adopted daughter moving away to Gondor, where everything is foreign and different. Lothiriel represents both Gondor's intrusion into Rohan and the confirmation that Eowyn is going to have to change and grow (which is not a bad thing, as Tolkien himself noted). Bledgifu is protective and bias, which is not always the best combination. We'll revisit her in later chapters, but it's important to note her opinion is probably not an uncommon one amongst older Rohirric people.

 **ORIGINAL CHARACTER LIST AND DESCRIPTIONS (feel free to skip if you're not confused/interested!)**

Eothain: Eomer's Captain of the Guard and one of his oldest friends. Married to Wilfled, brother of Lisswyn, father of Eofor (who will be introduced later). In my head, he looks like Kristofer Hivju.

Wilfled: Eothain's wife, and one of the chief weavers in Edoras. Short-tempered, but good-humored. Looks like Eleanor Tomlinson a la Poldark.

Lisswyn: Eothain's younger sister. Widowed by the War of the Ring, has a small daughter, Darwyn. Soft-spoken and gentle. Looks like Kelly Reilly.

Bledgifu: Aldburg's chief housekeeper. Stout, outspoken, rules the household with an iron fist. Very close to Theodwyn before her death. Looks like Brenda Blethyn.

Sunngifu: Bledgifu's daughter. Looks like Kelly McDonald.

Rosefled: One of many cousins of Eothain and Lisswyn. Looks like Ellie Bamber.

Esrun: Bledgifu's second in command and an old friend of Eowyn's. Looks like Holiday Grainger.

 **Terms for this chapter:**

 _mīn cild:_ my child

 _esol_ : ass

 _tōberstan:_ to break asunder, but in this instance it signifies the ceremony that occurs if either spouse is caught breaking their wedding vows


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Back again! Thank you again for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites!

As to the two less-than-kind reviews who implied that my story is shallow and OOC for adding a bit of diversity to Tolkien's canon, to you I say: thank you for your critiques! There are countless stories on this site and others that will not offend you with their "political correctness", and I invite you to read them instead. I'll be continuing this story as I've always planned it. Any other comments like this can be directed to my personal cell phone number: 1-800-DID-IASK.

And now, forward! Here we have flirtation (at last), a cantankerous healer, and the reminder that life is still whirling madly on in the rest of Rohan.

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

* * *

The return journey to Edoras is a quiet one.

Even in the wake of Bledgifu's mostly sincere apologies, Lothiriel cannot forget the sting of the insult, nor the whispered murmurs that followed her footsteps during their last two days in Aldburg. Still, Edoras is more familiar, its people not associated with Aldburg's prickly housekeeper, and she finds herself nearly giddy as the roof of the Golden Hall rises into view.

"I have never seen it during the mid-morning before!" She yells to Eomer. "Edoras has truly earned its title, in this light!"

He offers her a wide grin and she ignores the sudden stutter of her heart at the sight. It must be her lingering embarrassment at seeing him so unclothed in the lake. Yes, that must be it.

But his and Eowyn's kindness in the wake of Bledgifu's vitriol has been a balm. A few of the other men have been walking on ice around her since her outburst, but Lothiriel is certain she is secure in her friends' affections, and is content to let all other opinions roll off her back, the way water does from a swan's wings.

Erchirion, too, seems to have finally shaken off his melancholy. Bledgifu's words had been just as insulting to him as they had been to Lothiriel, but his wound had seemed deeper, with some other underlying cause. It had left him irritable and moody during the remainder of their time in Rohan's original capital, and Lothiriel is relieved to see him smiling again in the fresh morning air.

The gates are open for them as they reach the city, its streets lined with inquisitive children and bemused craftsmen. And there, at the stairs leading to the Golden Hall, stands Wilfled, with one arm around her son, Eofor; both beam as they pick Eothain out of the crush of riders. Lisswyn, too, stands beside them, Darwyn balanced on her hip. Merthwyn stands ready to welcome Eomer King and his company back to the hall, but Lothiriel chooses to watch his captain instead; Eothain has scarcely dismounted before Wilfled has flung herself at him. He lifts her easily, pregnant belly and all, beaming up at her before bringing her face close to his for a searing kiss.

A swift bolt of envy runs through Lothiriel; how wonderful it would be, to be welcomed home thus, by someone who loves you best in all the world.

Expecting to find Lisswyn rolling her eyes at her brother and sister-in-law's antics, Lothiriel turns her face in her friend's direction, only to find Lisswyn staring rather fixedly at something else.

No, not something else. _Someone_ else.

Lothiriel's breath catches in her throat as she follows Lisswyn's obviously hungry eyes, only to find her brother staring back, a similar longing in the brown eyes they share.

 _Oh_ , Lothiriel thinks. _Oh_.

Erchirion's sullenness, his powerful anger at Bledgifu's insult...it makes sense now.

He knows, surely, he _must_ know, as well as Lothiriel does, that a match between himself and Lisswyn would be utterly impossible! No matter how well thought of Eothain is, or how kind and lovely Lisswyn may be, a match between a widowed mother and a prince of Dol Amroth could never be allowed to take place. Their family was already subjected to constant rumors of Harad blood in their veins, and sweet Elbereth, the scandal that had occurred when Elphir had announced his intention to marry Alycia! Only a few well placed rumors from Naneth and Faramir had saved them, allowing everyone to believe it had been for trade, for protection from Umbar's ships.

There could be no such rumors here, now, to shield this couple.

Lothiriel would have to interfere, assuming this was anything more than a flirtation.

But she knows Erchirion. She knows her brother's heart better than anyone's, save perhaps her own, and she knows there are no flights of fancy for him, no empty kisses behind a tavern or rolls in the hay. He is not Amrothos, nor any of their friends in Dol Amroth who delight in the chase. No, Erchirion is the sort of man who delights in the _catch_ , and everything that comes after.

Lisswyn would be lucky, were he any other man. Were she childless, not a widow, or born slightly higher in Rohan's court.

 _Oh, Elbereth_ , Lothiriel thinks suddenly, praying to the goddess in a way she hasn't in _years_ , _let this end in happiness. Do not make me be the one to break my brother's heart._

"Erchirion," she murmurs, reaching for his sleeve.

But her brother is deaf to her, swinging down from his horse with a spring to his step. Before she can call his name again, a slight tug at her riding skirt draws her attention downwards. Eofor, Eothain's son, is beaming up at her. "Can you get down, my lady?"

 _Mischievous to the core_ , Lothiriel thinks, brightening. _Truly his father's son._

And it is too late to catch up to Erchirion, who has already passed Lisswyn and entered the Hall. "I believe I can manage, Master Eofor," she says, dismounting with ease.

Though the boy is only seven, his head already clears her waist, and the red hair he has inherited from both of his parents stands in messy tufts.

"Fæder says you are a good horsewoman, my lady," he says, still smiling. "I didn't know Stoningland's people cared for such things."

"We know enough to get by," Lothiriel assures him, ruffling his already mussed hair. "Though there are not many Gondorians who could claim to be on the level of your country's magnificent riders."

"A truer statement has never been spoken," comes a familiar voice. Both Lothiriel and Eofor jump, neither having noticed how close Eomer had been standing.

"So the Mark is better?" Eofor asks.

Lothiriel resists the urge to flinch. Eofor could not have known how sore a subject he has just accidentally trod upon.

"No, Eofor," Eomer answers firmly, startling her into meeting his eyes. "The Mark has its virtues, but it does not lessen Gondor's. There is no better or worse, only differences. How else could we tell the two places apart?"

Eofor chews his lip, clearly thinking of an answer for his king. Suddenly, he brightens, saying, "Hair color! We've all got fair hair, and nobody here has hair like _glómmung cwén_!"

 _That name again_ , Lothiriel thinks, reaching up to touch her braid in a reflexive motion.

"Eofor, what does-"

But Eomer cuts across her before she can pose the question, swinging the boy up and over his shoulder as if he weighs as little as a sack of flour. "Hair color indeed! Is that all that separates us from our southern neighbors?"

Eofor's response is unintelligible through his laughter. Lothiriel cannot help but smile at the picture they make; she had not thought Eomer to be used to children, but his ease with Eofor is obvious.

 _What a father he will make!_ She thinks, and then flushes, strangely, at the idea.

"Do put my son down before you break him, Eomer King," Wilfled orders, her mild expression out of place with her tone. She and Eothain have emerged from their fierce embrace, the only signs of anything having occurred being the the splotches of pink on Wilfled's cheeks, and Eothain's rather smug grin as he keeps his arm around his wife's waist.

Again, Lothiriel is struck by a pang of longing; before today, she had not given much thought to marriage, what it would mean to be someone's wife. Suddenly, she finds that she _does_ want it, and all it entails.

"He's a sturdy sort," Eomer insists, keeping Eofor slung over his shoulder, "and I, unlike some people, have never dropped him."

"Not this again," groans Eothain. "I was half asleep! I had just ridden all the way from the Eastmark-"

"-and were meant to relieve your poor, tired wife who had spent the past three weeks alone with your teething son," Wilfled interrupts. "And how does he repay me? By letting a squirming two year old wiggle out of his arms while snoring in my best chair."

Lothiriel laughs, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Eothain!"

"He turned out alright, did he not?" Eothain asks, reaching over to tickle Eofor's side. "What say you, Eofor? Does your head still feel scrambled from that fall?"

"No, Fæder!" Eofor laughs, trying to squirm away from Eothain's tickling hands.

Eothain turns to offer Wilfled a smug grin. "See? Right as rain, our lad."

"Let us hope _this_ child turns out to be something other than you in miniature," Wilfled teases, resting her hands on her large belly. "And I should thank you for the salve, my lady, it has worked wonders on my feet."

Lothiriel beams, pleased. Before they had departed Edoras, Wilfled had mentioned that the skin of her feet had been cracking during her pregnancy. Luckily, Naneth had taught her the recipe for a moisturizing salve years ago, to help Aunt Ivriniel during the dry winters. It had been easy enough to reproduce it with the supplies in her trunk. "It works best when rubbed in thoroughly," Lothiriel says, flicking a teasing grin in Eothain's direction, "usually by someone else."

Eothain groans. "My lady, you are cruel!"

"Hah!" Eomer says. "As if it is not known throughout Edoras that there is precious little you would not do for your wife, Eothain."

"It is true," pipes in Eofor, "Módor crooks her finger and Fæder-"

Eothain plucks his son from Eomer's shoulder and settles him on one of his own, sighing. "May you be blessed with children considerably less troublesome than mine, my lady."

"I suspect that will depend greatly on who their father is," Wilfled says, eyes twinkling. "As you are the root of all of the mischief in our son, _min lēof_."

"I suspect my children will be troublesome regardless, as I have often been called so," Lothiriel laughs. "Wilfled, what is the Rohirric for 'troublesome'?"

" _Hefigtyme_ ," is the prompt response.

" _Hefigtyme_ ," Lothiriel repeats. At least _that_ is not part of the name she's heard people calling her. Eothain's snort of laughter only confirms that her pronunciation is as terrible as ever. "You know, I think I will take you up on your offer to help me learn Rohirric, Eothain."

Eothain grins, looking dangerously happy, but Wilfled groans. "You will only learn curse words from him, my lady!"

"I agree," Eomer says with a frown. "Let me recommend a more appropriate tutor."

Lothiriel frowns; she does not like the sensation of being managed. "I am sure Eothain is appropriate enough-"

"My lady," Wilfled interrupts, smiling, "as his wife, I assure you that he is not."

"Such loyalty," Eothain complains, "must you two rob me of my fun? I was truly looking forward to teaching the princess what _þyrnihtu_ means-"

"It means-" Eofor starts to say before his father jostles him into silence.

Lothiriel raises an eyebrow; yes, it is high time she begins to learn the phrases and words being bandied about her. "If not Eothain, then who?"

Eomer mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'anyone else' and receives an elbow to the side from his captain for his mumbling.

"Duilin would not be a bad choice," Wilfled offers.

"Módor, no!" Eofor protests. "Duilin will be rude to the princess!"

"Duilin," Lothiriel murmurs. "That is not a Rohirric name."

"Duilin is not an Eorlingas by birth," Eomer explains. "He is from Erech, originally."

A Gondorian who lives in Rohan! "And what does he do?"

"He is a healer, though most of his peers dislike him for his reliance on Gondorian craft instead of Rohirric," Wilfled explains. "But the midwives prefer him above any other, and so he has my confidence." She brushes her son's hair tenderly, as gentle as Lothiriel has ever seen her. "He even helped bring you into the world, _swēte_."

"Módor!" Eofor complains.

"I trust Wilfled's judgment," Lothiriel says. "When can I meet this Duilin?"

"Now, if you'd like," Eothain says. "Though it would be much more amusing to have Eomer introduce you."

Scowling, Eomer shoots his captain a look. "No, it would not."

Interest piqued, Lothiriel crosses her arms. "Am I not worthy of introducing?"

Eomer's jaw works as Eothain guffaws beside him. "That is not what I meant."

"Oh, good, so you _will_ introduce me, then," she chirps.

Eomer's glare only intensifies; sweet Elbereth, how those eyes of his could burn! "I do have other things to attend to, Lothiriel."

All at once, her good humor drains out of her. He is the _king_ , not some low-ranking lord who can waste the day away on a lark. She cannot presume to take up more of his time, not after he has been gone from the capital for nearly a week because of her silly whim to see a lake.

"Of course," she murmurs, aware of the heat in her cheeks. "I did not mean to imply otherwise."

Eomer looks rather stunned at her sudden change in demeanor. He steps forward and Lothiriel suddenly finds herself under the full weight of his stare, his dark eyes bearing into hers. "Lothiriel-"

"No, you are right, and I have wasted enough of your time already on our venture to Aldburg," she says, twisting her necklace nervously. By the Valar, what _is_ it about this man that makes her mouth run away with her?

"I do not consider anytime spent with-spent showing more of our country to you a waste," he says firmly. "And if you do not mind waiting, I expect my councilors to release me by midafternoon. I know patience is not one of your-" at this, she quirks an eyebrow and he relents, smiling slightly, " _either_ of our strong suits, but I will accompany you to Duilin's shop if that is what you wish."

"I do," she blurts, feeling hot and nearly itchy under his gaze. Elbereth, what color _were_ his eyes? Dark, to be certain, but not the brown she's always thought them to be; there are a multitude of colors there, blending in shades of deep greens and golds. "And I can. Be patient, I mean."

"I am glad to hear it," Eomer says, clearly fighting back a smile. Lothiriel nearly jumps at the brush of his hand over hers, and then he is lifting it to his mouth, and pressing a gentle kiss to its back. "Until then."

He is gone before she can make any semblance of response-no, any semblance of _speech_ , let alone a response-and Lothiriel finds herself staring at Eothain and Wilfled's frighteningly smug faces.

"I should find Eowyn for our lesson," she hears herself murmuring, turning towards the great hall as quickly as she can.

Her hand is still tingling as she walks away, ignoring Eothain's laughter.

* * *

Eomer feels a fool. He's not sure what possessed him to do such a thing-Eomer, son of Eomund, has never been one for courtly gestures-only that he did, and he cannot get the sensation of the softness of Lothiriel's hand out of his mind, nor forget the feeling of her pulse racing under the skin of her wrist.

The princess is a distraction, he tells himself. He is drawn to her because she has been a true friend to Eowyn, has shown sincere interest his country and his people, not to mention the warmth of her smile and the endearing way she cannot help but voice her true thoughts- _no_! No, it must be his lingering discomfort over Bledgifu's rudeness, and the admirable way she had conducted herself during the rest of their stay in Aldburg. Yes, that is.

 _Bríwþicce_ , that damnable voice in his head mutters, _at least be truthful to yourself, if no one else._

Shaking his head to clear it, he pauses outside of the council chambers. He can already hear voices inside; likely the old bastards have been chomping at the bit during his trip to Aldburg, pacified only by the reports he'd sent in his absence.

The door opens and Gamling's familiar face emerges. He offers Eomer a less than comforting grimace. "You had better get in here, sire, or they'll start without you."

Groaning, he follows the other man inside.

"Eomer King!" Gamling cries, and the din of the room dies down.

There is a moment while they all settle into their seats, and Eomer receives sincere welcomes back to Medulsed.

And then, it begins.

The West-Mark reports more Dunlendings, massing along the river in small groups; there have yet to be any attacks, but villages have reported missing grain and animals.

The East-Mark was healing, but slowly. Many farms had been burnt, and their masters slaughtered by Orcs or valiantly perished on the fields of battle. Gondor's loan of grain was well appreciated, but lacking in hands to plant and nourish it.

The Wold, largely untouched by Orc or Dunlending, is nonetheless unable to provide for all of the refugees from other parts of the Mark that have come streaming into the region in search of shelter and food.

"Helm's Deep could be used again," one of the councilors suggests. "Caedda would welcome the help rebuilding the keep, and it would keep the women and children out of the chill when the seasons turn."

That, at least, is easily agreed upon.

The next topic is decidedly less pleasant.

"Eomer King, with your sister's marriage, there will be no lady to take over her duties at Medulsed," Baldred says, sounding much more like a scolding uncle than a councilor. Bema, how much Eomer wishes it _was_ Theoden discussing this matter, and not his old master of grain. "The line of Eorl _must_ be continued. You must take a wife!"

There are a number of grumbles and the slight banging of a few goblets in agreement.

"Settle down!" Gamling orders.

"My lord, Baldred speaks the truth," Dernhelm agrees. "The kingdom has suffered through enough turmoil already. The line of kings must be secured."

"And I suppose you would have him do so by marrying your daughter, Dernhelm?" Another councilor, Erkenbrand, one of Theoden's most trustworthy, snorts. "Your game is not subtle."

"Better Dernhelm's daughter than a maid plucked from the Eastfold!" A different voice-possibly Ordlac-chimes in. "Eomer King is of Aldburg, he should marry a lady of the West to better unite the kingdom!"

Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to remain calm. "My sister remains in Edoras until after Yule," he says, his voice carrying despite the noise in the rest of the chamber, "surely my...selection can wait until then."

There are more murmurs of dissension until Erkenbrand finally says, "Our greatest concern should be providing shelter and food for the Mark's people. It is to Eomer King's credit that he recognizes this and to your shame that you do not, my lords."

That stuns them all into silence, but no one dares contradict Erkenbrand.

Gamling steers the conversation back towards more pressing matters. Erkenbrand is right. Feeding and caring for the Eorlingas should be the entirety of the council's top priority at the moment, with autumn swiftly ending and Yule less than three months away.

Still, he feels weary and drained when the council finally ends their session. Erkenbrand claps a hand to his shoulder, "You're doing fine, my lad," he says in a low tone. "Just fine."

Eomer does not feel as though he is doing fine; he feels as if he is stretched thin. How can he feed his people, keep them warm in the winter months to come? So many men have died, so many crops ruined-even with the aid Gondor has already provided. The task seems insurmountable, and yet his lords badger him about marriage. A wife, a Queen, an heir. As if the thought of bringing a child into this world is in any way appealing, let alone tying a woman to a country and king on the brink of disaster-

"Bema's balls," a familiar voice drawls, "you look as gloomy as a storm-cloud. I thought kings were supposed to be the luckiest bastards in all the world, and here you stand, scowling away at an innocent column."

Groaning, Eomer lifts his head to meet the eyes of the Second Marshal of the Mark. "Who let you in here, old man?"

"Old as I am, I still have a way with the serving girls," Eothred chuckles from where he leans comfortably against the wall. "That and my sweet niece said you'd be in here, tearing all that pretty blonde hair of yours out."

Eomer stands, crossing the room to hug the other man. "Still attached, I'm afraid."

Eothred, son of Eodred, slaps his back, as hearty as ever. "Good. Should hate to see you do something to put the lasses off you before you manage to find yourself a queen."

"Eothred," Eomer growls, "not now."

"Why not now?" Eothred asks; he is shorter than his nephew, but there is no doubt that the male line of Eothain's family all possesses the same talent for mischief. "You could have your pick of any woman in the Mark-Hells, any woman in all of Middle Earth, if you really put your mind to it. Speaking of," at this, a look that Wilfled has often described as _hefigtyme_ enters the marshal's eye, "on my trek through Medulsed, I saw a lovely dark filly who'd be enough to tempt any man, let alone Rohan's king-"

 _Dark filly_? Eomer thinks and then-

" _Helle_ ," He hisses; he'd forgotten his promise to the princess to take her to Duilin's shop.

"Well, if you feel so strongly about it-" Eothred starts to say, eyes laughing. Eomer pushes by him, not comprehending until they're nearly halfway through the hall.

"If you would refrain from referring to the _princess of Dol Amroth_ as any sort of horse in her presence, I would be greatly obliged," he growls at his marshal.

The older man holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Easy, Eomer King, I know when to not press my suit. Looks as if this mare is spoken for."

"That is not-" Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose again, feeling a headache swiftly arriving. "She is not of the Mark, Eothred, and will likely not appreciate being likened to a horse."

"She's got the mane for it," Eothred drawls, flinching back slightly at the look of sheer loathing Eomer gives him. "Understood, sire. No complimenting of the Gondorian princess."

"You are as bad as Eothain," Eomer grumbles.

"Hah! I taught that lad everything he knows," Eothred chortles, slapping Eomer on the back. "Now let's go see this lady who has my king so flustered-"

"I am _not_ -" Eomer pauses, willing himself not to punch his marshal. Eothred is two decades older than him, as loyal as he is troublesome, and his sudden appearance would not stem solely from the desire to irritate his king into an early grave. "I trust you've come to Edoras for some other purpose than to drive me mad?"

The corners of Eothred's mouth turn down and he looks serious for the first time since his arrival. "Aye, I am afraid so, sire. But we can let that matter lie until the evening meal; you can't keep me from your fair filly forever."

Eothred has already turned the corner before Eomer can finish process his statement, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to to pluck the older man by his collar and wheel him bodily backwards. It is lucky that he refrained, for Eowyn, Lothiriel, and Wilfled are at a table now in view, and such a display of temper would have earned him rebukes from all three of them.

"Eothred!" Eowyn cries, rising from her seat with a cheerful smile. "No one mentioned your return!"

"You know me, lass," he chuckles, bowing over her hands before pressing a kiss to their backs. "I like to slip in with the wind."

"Yes, and with trouble also," Wilfled sighs. "A common trait of your house."

"Dearest Wilfled, as lovely as ever," Eothred says, pressing a hand to his heart. "How that scruffy-headed nephew of mine managed to win you, I will never understand."

"Sometimes I myself fail to comprehend," Wilfled says, expression deadpan.

Eomer cannot hold back a snort; the eyes of the women turn to him.

"Ah, Eomer King," Lothiriel says, leaning casually on her hand. Her eyes sparkle with unrestrained mischief; perhaps it had not been a wise decision to introduce her to Eothain and Wilfled after all. "So you did remember your promise."

He quirks an eyebrow at that; surely, she does not think him as callous as that, to offer to introduce her to a tutor and then not make good on his word?

"She has been pacing for nearly thirty minutes," Eowyn says in a loud, conspiratorial tone. "We only just got her to sit after I reminded her that wearing holes in the floor of Medulsed is certainly not something she wanted to teach me as the proper behavior of a Gondorian noblewoman."

Lothiriel flushes, flinging a napkin in Eowyn's direction. "Eowyn!"

 _Impatience, not impertinence,_ Eomer realizes, and relaxes. "I did recall our agreement, my lady, though you did not hold to yours."

"Excitement sometimes outstrips patience, I am afraid," she says with a shrug. "And I am very excited to meet this Master Duilin of yours."

"Duilin?" Eothred asks incredulously. "You would introduce this lovely lady to that crotchety old bastard before me?"

"Eothred," Eomer groans, not sure if his compliment to Lothiriel or rude language was worse.

"I am capable of managing my own introductions, my lord," Lothiriel interrupts, offering the marshal a sweet smile. "And I judge you to be Eothain's uncle, by hair and wit alone."

Eothred grins, striding over to her before lifting her hand to his mouth for a kiss. "You are as observant as you are beautiful, my lady."

Eomer is vaguely aware of both Eowyn and Wilfled groaning at the older man's antics, but he is focused on the sudden flush of the princess's cheeks-the same expression she'd given him earlier in the day-and the hot bolt of anger that shoots through his stomach.

Ridiculous. He's being utterly ridiculous; Eothred is no threat. And he can hardly covet Lothiriel's blushes. He cannot want anything of her, he cannot want _her_ -

 _Oh, but you do,_ that irritatingly familiar voice mutters.

"Come now, princess," he says, sharply, "Duilin will not wait forever."

Three pairs of shocked eyes turn on him, but Eothred-the bastard-looks merely amused.

"Until later then, Lord Eothred," Lothiriel says. She gives him a querulous look as she steps closer. Eomer keeps his face carefully blank. He doesn't blame her for the even more stunned look she gives him when he offers her his elbow, but she slips her arm through his nonetheless.

* * *

Eomer's strides are longer than hers, and his strange irritation makes them quicker than ever.

"Eomer, if you intend for me to be able to draw breath when we arrive, I would ask that you slow your pace," she manages to whisper, well aware of the curious looks they're receiving from every person they pass.

He slows and Lothiriel cannot help but bite back a smile at the sudden red splotches in his cheeks.

"I apologize," he murmurs. "I had forgotten-"

"My short stature?" She fills in for him, offering a wry smile. "The meaning of the word 'walk'?"

His scowl is familiar, if a little disheartening. She isn't sure _what_ has put him in this changeable mood-perhaps his meeting with the council, perhaps Eothain's uncle's sudden appearance-but she has no desire to add to it by needling him. "I am sorry," she says, squeezing his arm gently and resolutely ignoring the obvious strength lurking beneath the fabric of his tunic, "I can see you are in no mood for teasing."

Eomer deflates a little at that, some of the tension easing out of him. "It seems if I must ask your forgiveness yet again, Lothiriel. I am out of sorts."

"Did the council meeting go as badly as all that?" She asks, and then winces. It is hardly her place to ask; this is not her country, nor her councilors. Rohan's business is its own. She is merely a visitor, no matter how at home she feels here. Bledgifu's comments have made that abundantly clear.

To her surprise, Eomer sighs before saying, "It was not all bad, but I fear these next few months will be far from easy for many of my people."

Lothiriel frowns. She knows from her most recent letters from Naneth and Elphir that Dol Amroth had fared decently well during the War, with only a few ships lost and the city itself receiving little attention from Sauron's troops. Minas Tirith, despite its heavy battering, had its surrounding lands to fall back on for food and supplies. Much of the outer regions of Gondor had been spared from everything more than heavy marching from enemy men and beasts. Rohan had not been so lucky.

"Can you not ask Aragorn for aid?" She asks.

Eomer's face darkens again, and she knows she has said the wrong thing. "You would have me beg him for assistance more than I already have? Have my country kneel to yours in supplication, like the children we must seem to your older, more civilized people?"

Lothiriel clenches her jaw to keep from speaking; he is worried, upset, but not with her, not truly. It would do little good to snap at him. A month ago she would not have hesitated to, but now...she finds that she cannot. "No, that is not what I meant at all," she says, fighting to keep her tone even. "Gondor owes you and your kin much, Eomer. Its people and its king-one of your dearest friends-will not soon forget that. It is not weak to ask for aid when you truly need it. Gondor did not hesitate to call on Rohan in one of our darkest hours. We can scarcely turn our backs on you and your people now. After everything you have done for us, how could we deny your people anything? Food, hands, timber; what is sharing such things amongst friends?"

They have stopped walking, and are receiving even more curious looks now then they had been when Eomer had been half dragging her through the streets of Edoras. Lothiriel meets Eomer's slack-jawed expression with something she hopes is composure; in truth, her heart is pounding in her chest. Her mother has always encouraged her wit, and her father has never forbidden her from expressing her opinion, but this feels...this is...different. This matters more than being taken seriously in a room full of Dol Amrothian nobles.

Still, she holds his gaze and hopes he cannot sense the sudden anxiety that has taken root in her stomach.

And then he chuckles, stunning her even further. "What was it you said to me once? 'Originality is-"

"Simply a pair of fresh eyes," she finishes, smiling tentatively. "A famous Dol Amrothian phrase."

"I am beginning to think there is much I could learn from Dol Amroth," Eomer murmurs, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. It is a lovely thing, his smile.

"Unfortunately for you, I am already engaged as a tutor for another member of the royal house of the Riddermark," Lothiriel sniffs, affecting her snobbiest, most courtly accent.

"A pity indeed," he agrees, his smile only growing.

She finds herself wanting to touch her fingertips to his mouth, to better feel where it is his happiness dwells. Her cheeks flush scarlet at the thought and she forces herself to keep her hands where they are; one at her side, the other curled around his arm. "Smiling suits you, Eomer King," Lothiriel says, unable to keep the words from passing her lips.

His grin becomes smug, and yet remains, against all odds, utterly endearing. "Does it, _glómmung cwén_?"

Before she can begin to open her mouth to ask what in the _Valar's_ name that nickname means, the door to the nearest building opens over Eomer's shoulder.

"What fools linger outside my door, whispering sweet nothings to each other?" Comes an unfamiliar voice. Its owner is a slim, slight man, bald under his woolen hat, with shrewd brown eyes.

Eomer groans, turning to face him. "Do you greet everyone who stops near your door this way, Master Healer?"

The old man sniffs, looking utterly unfazed by his king's presence. "Only when they're impudent upstarts like yourself, boy."

Lothiriel feels her jaw drop open in astonishment. This cannot be-

"Lothiriel, may I present to you Master Duilin, chief healer of Edoras," Eomer says in a suspiciously dry tone.

The old man gives her a rather thorough looking over before meeting her stunned expression. "So you're the princess, eh? Into the shop with you, girl, so we can see if that brain of yours can pass muster."

She begins to suspect she may have been better off learning Rohirric from Eothain, after all.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Cue strains of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" going in the background. Looks like our two idiots-er, principle characters-are finally starting to admit things to themselves. And we've finally found out what's been bothering Erchirion: a who, not a what. This will likely (read, will) cause problems at a later date, as Lothiriel worries.

Eothred is Eothain and Lisswyn's uncle, and is also the Second Marshal of the Mark. Which means he's in charge of the men of the Westmark and ranks fairly highly as far as Rohan's military goes. He also looks very much like Jerome Flynn, of Game of Thrones/Ripper Street fame.

Duilin is Patrick Stewart, btw, which makes writing him even more enjoyable.

 **Terms for this chapter:**

 _min lēof:_ my love

 _hefigtyme:_ troublesome

 _þyrnihtu:_ prickly

 _swēte_ : sweet one, sweetheart

 _bríwþicce:_ as thick as pottage; more literally, thick-headed


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Hi guys! Apologies for my sudden absence; work has been a bit of a mess lately, and I had to do EXTENSIVE re-writes on this chapter, as it was giving me a bit of difficulty tone-wise.

Welcome to new followers and favorites, and thanks again to those of you who left reviews! A couple of y'all really lifted my spirits and I can't thank y'all enough for that. I will say this story has definitely a more movie-based focus, for those of you who were wondering about it, and I hope that'll help clear up any confusion in future chapters!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

* * *

As the seasons begin to noticeably change, Lothiriel finds herself falling into a routine. As promised, she and Eowyn continue their lessons on "Gondorian womanhood"-Naneth has proven to be an invaluable resource, even from miles away in Dol Amroth, sending books and instructions on the most popular dances of the court. Lothiriel suspects her mother's advice is modified to best suit Eowyn's own predisposition towards horse-riding and activity. _She_ certainly doesn't recall ever learning about the care of tapestries as a child, nor needing to know anything about the intricacies of breeding horses.

 _Perhaps it is possible_ , Lothiriel thinks one afternoon, listening to Eowyn recite the history of the line of Stewards, _to keep something of your old home while learning to appreciate the new._

Duilin would certainly agree with her. Though Gondorian by birth, her tutor in the Rohirric language can ride a horse as well as any natural-born Eorlingas, and haggles better than any fishmonger she's ever seen. He had come to Edoras as apprentice to Morwen Queen's healer, and had simply never left when the older man and queen had returned to their homeland.

Nonetheless, his healing style is anything but Rohirric. Lothiriel recognizes a number of vials and herbs as the same items she's used in the Houses of Healing, as well as a few that Naneth has made in the past. Duilin dismisses her abilities as a healer as "mediocre at best", but agrees to teach her more of what he knows along with the language of the Mark.

"I have heard tale of your mother," Duilin tells her between lectures on the importance of yarrow and mugwort, "and if that princess of Dol Amroth is as wise and useful as it is rumored, so shall be _glómmung cwén_."

 _Cwén_ , Lothiriel now knows to mean 'lady'-or in some instances, princess-but no one will tell her the first part of the nickname that is now used by the majority of Edoras's populace.

Lisswyn merely smiles when she asks, Eothain and Eowyn chuckle, and Eomer often pretends she has not asked the question, though he is as guilty as the rest of leveling the moniker at her.

"You may assume it is better than what the people call me," Erchirion teases, in good spirits as he so often is now-days.

"Tch," Lothiriel tuts at him, bumping her shoulder against his. " _ganet breguweard_ is hardly inaccurate."

"But highly unoriginal," Erchirion mockingly complains, "for there are three other swan princes to choose from."

"But none as well-liked by the Rohirrim," Eothain counters, grinning widely. "Believe me, you are to be much preferred to Amrothos, Erchirion."

Lothiriel wonders if Eothain would say such a thing if he knew about the looks so often exchanged between her brother and Lisswyn. She has no proof of anything else occurring, but in truth, she knows she is not looking very hard. The affection between them is palpable: not entirely unlike how Faramir and Eowyn had been in the Houses of Healing. Perhaps that is why it is so obvious to her, as she has seen its like before.

Erchirion has not said anything, nor has Lisswyn, but both are jumpy when alone with her, as if they expect to be confronted.

Privately, Lothiriel wishes they would not give her anything to confront them about; she loves them both too dearly to tell them that this infatuation is folly, that Ada and Naneth could not approve of such a match no matter how much they would like to. Her parents themselves were an unconventional match, but they had both been noble. Even Alycia's Umbarian blood had been overlooked by the majority of Gondor, as her father was a prince among their people. Noble marries noble, even if their skin colors cause tongues to wag, but Lisswyn was decidedly _not_ noble, even by Rohan's standards, and Lothiriel cannot imagine any "proper" Gondorian household welcoming them as a married couple.

Alycia is the only one she has told of it, and her sister-in-law's understanding and advice is the only thing that keeps her silent. To confront them too soon would court denial and anger, to confront them too late risks heartbreak. Aly insists Lothiriel will know the right moment when it presents itself to her.

And it is not as if there are not other matters to keep her mind occupied: Wilfled and Eothain's child is due within the month, Darwyn has begun babble in nearly fluent sentences, and Eowyn has placed herself in charge of providing Lothiriel with an appropriate wardrobe for Rohan's winter.

"You could not have known you would be staying here this long when you came for my uncle's funeral," Eowyn says in the face of Lothiriel's protests. "And your gowns, while lovely, will not keep you warm when there is three feet of snow outside."

"Three feet?" Lothiriel repeats weakly. It rarely snowed in Dol Amroth, being so close to the sea, and her vague memories of winters in Minas Tirith always included sharing a woolen blanket with Faramir or wedging her icy toes under a protesting Boromir's thigh.

Lisswyn's soft laughter startles Lothiriel out of her shock. "You would have thought Eowyn just threatened you with Orcs, Lothiriel! There is no need to go as pale as all that."

"I knew you would dislike the idea of cold," Eowyn says smugly. "Mistress Théodburga will come tomorrow, to see you fitted."

And so the next morning, after a particularly grueling lesson with Duilin on all of the different names for _stable_ -of which there are seven-Lothiriel finds herself in Eowyn's solar, trying to keep her expression pleasant as Mistress Théodburga takes the measurement of her waist, and then her legs from hip to ankle.

"You'll need sturdier dresses for certain, as well as something for Yule. And we will finally be able to get you a riding dress that isn't blue," Eowyn says, smiling in a way Lothiriel isn't sure she likes. "Poor Eothain can finally relax when it comes to keeping all of your suitors away from you."

Lothiriel can feel her cheeks flush crimson, as Naneth and Alycia had teased her for the same reason in their last respective letters. "I have no such suitors, Eowyn, as you well know."

"Would you not like a Rohirric suitor, _glómmung cwén_?" Wilfled asks from her seat by the fire. Her feet, swollen as they are, are propped up in a chair across from her, and yet she manages a look of pure mischief that could rival her husband.

Unbidden, Lothiriel's mind provides her with the image of Eomer's smile, the brush of his lips over the back of her hand, the powerful figure he had cut in the lake near Aldburg-

Shaking her head to clear it, she says, "Whether I would like one or not matters little, as there is no such man."

"Perhaps you have not given them the indication their suit would be welcome," comes Mistress Théodburga's voice. "Our customs may be less formal than Gondor's, my lady, but men are blockheaded no matter what country they're from."

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel keeps her eyes fixed on the tapestry above the fireplace.

"But subtle they are not," Lisswyn intones, the smile plain in her voice. "If a man of Rohan wishes to pay court to you, Lothiriel, you will know it."

Lothiriel is not sure whether that comment is supposed to excite or frighten her, but finds her heart beating faster all the same.

* * *

It takes more than two weeks to finally convince the council to grant the Second Marshal a meeting. Eothred is known throughout the Mark for both his hot-temper and penchant for mischief, making the councilors more unwilling than they likely ought to be, considering his position as a marshal. But it comes to light very quickly that Eothred's sudden arrival to Edoras had not been without cause. Though the reports they had received from the West Mark were accurate, there had been an even more startling development: a tribe of Dunlendings has sent a representative, to ask for aid.

This, of course, sends the council into a complete uproar.

"How dare they ask for our help, after what they have done to the Mark!"

"Let them starve; they are little more than animals, living in the hills off rocks. Let the world be rid of them."

"Should we not use this to our advantage? If we can work out a trade agreement and come to a peaceable-" This gentler statement by one of the younger councilmembers-Haleth, Hama's son-is quickly drowned out by scoffs and jeers from his elder peers.

"It could be a trap," Baldred says. "To lure our kinsmen away from the towns and into their territory-"

"They have offered to meet on neutral ground, unarmed," Eothred interjects, glaring at the older man. "And these are not the Dunlendings who laid waste to the Westfold and Eastemmet. These are their widows, their children, whose bones stick out from their crumbling clothing."

Eomer raises an eyebrow at his marshal's defensive tone. Eothred has had no qualms cutting down raiding Dunlendings in the past, but now seems to have had a change of heart. These people must truly be in dire need, to have affected the man so.

"We can scarcely feed our own people, Eothred Marshal," Dernhelm retorts, crossing his arms. "Would you have us feed these...these savages before them?"

"I would remind you where it is the majority of our food is coming from this winter," Eothred growls. "And that this argument has likely taken place in Gondor's council hall as well."

 _That_ rather inelegant statement causes another outcry, and it takes Gamling yelling for peace for minutes before the council can calm itself again.

"What say you, Eomer King?" Erkenbrand asks. "Do we treat with those who have been our enemies? Can we leave women and children to starve for the sins of their men-folk?"

The wording of Erkenbrand's question makes obvious what his opinion on the matter is: Dunlendings or not, these are innocent people, guilty only of being born on the wrong side of the Isen. But many of his other councilors are unlikely to share his opinion. Many an Eorlingas has lost friend, family, or livestock in a Dunlending raid, and the animosity between their peoples runs deep and bitter. Eomer himself has no great love for the Dunlendings. They are a cruel, savage people, their language even fiercer than that of the Mark, and their buildings so rudimentary that they were often more tent than hut.

But the thought of the afflicted being women and children gives him pause. Children, regardless of heritage, were innocents, and to take the life of a woman in the Mark was the highest evil, the greatest _æwisc_.

Abruptly, Eomer wishes Lothiriel were here, to provide another perspective. She has never dealt with the Dunlendings and therefore has no bias to influence her one way or another in her thoughts on the matter. But he cannot imagine her agreeing with the starvation of children, under any circumstances. He finds he cannot either.

"I will meet with their representative," he says decisively. "If their situation is truly as dire as they have led us to believe, we will provide them aid in return for furs and a vow that the raids on the border farms will stop."

"But sire, they are Dunlendings-"

"They are weak, Baldred, and likely used as ill by Saurman as our own people," Eomer interrupts, conviction growing. "I will not begin my rule with the murder of women and children, Dunlending or not."

There are a few more grumbles, but Erkenbrand's powerful glare is enough to keep the more mutinous in check.

Eomer will have to leave Edoras again-because as much as he trusts Eothred and his other marshals, he must see the truth of this matter himself-little as he wants to. The councilors will plot and meddle in his absence. Eowyn will leave a few months after Yule, and every day brings closer the hour that she will no longer be of the Mark, no longer be just his sister, but a wife. The prince and princess of Dol Amroth will return to their country as well, and the thought pains him. Erchirion would have made an admirable horse-lord in another life and Lothiriel-

 _It is an infatuation_ , he tells himself. _Nothing more._

"Eothred," he calls, forcing his thoughts away from long dark hair and gentle curves hidden beneath green velvet, "how many men will this venture require?"

"At least an eored, my lord," is the prompt response.

 _I will have to ask Eothain_ , Eomer realizes, frown only deepening. Wilfled is nearly at the end of her time and the far reaches of the West-mark were at least a week's ride away. It would be better to ask another captain, but Gamling was still not yet fully-healed from the wounds he'd suffered at the Black Gate. And there is no man Eomer trusts more than Eothain, in both his capacity as a captain and as a friend.

"Eowyn will hold the throne in my absence," he declares-this, at least, is met with little resistance, as every man here knows how capable his sister is as a leader. "We will depart for the West-mark in two days."

As the council dissolves into low murmurs around him, Eomer can only hope he has made the right choice. The lives of many would depend upon it.

* * *

Lothiriel's lesson on blood-thinning herbs is interrupted the next morning by a furious-looking Wilfled and a stone-faced Eowyn. Duilin takes one look at them, standing shoulder to shoulder in the door of his shop and groans, all but kicking Lothiriel off of her stool.

"You three take your ladies' troubles elsewhere," he says, shaking a finger at them. "I shall have no tears in this shop that are not pain-induced, nor bloodshed either."

"Duilin!" Lothiriel scolds, though she should not be surprised; no matter the rank to whom the elder healer speaks, the measure of respect remains the same: entirely absent.

"Be gone with you, girl," Duilin insists. "Princess or not, I have little desire to be made into mince meat for some other fool man's actions."

Sighing, but smiling a little despite the nervousness she feels at her friends' rather ominous expressions, she gives his gnarled hand a squeeze. "As you wish, Master Healer. But I will return to finish my lesson."

He snorts at her, but Lothiriel sees the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. " _Hefigytme_ _mægþ_."

" _Stearcmód láréow_ ," she retorts, before finally taking her leave.

Wilfled and Eowyn say nothing as she joins them, though the latter lets her take her hand and give it a familiar squeeze. "What is it?"

"Not here," Wilfled hisses, "I do not wish to lose my temper in public."

So they wait until they reach Eowyn's rooms, though the wide berth everyone they pass gives them indicates that Wilfled and Eowyn's anger looks as palpable as it feels. Lothiriel has scarcely closed the door behind them when Eowyn gives an exasperated curse, plucking the nearest blanket from her chair and flinging it on the floor. Wilfled sinks into the now vacant chair, lip quivering.

"I do not think it was a woolen blanket that has upset you two so," Lothiriel says slowly. She has never seen either of them like this. True, Wilfled has one of the shortest tempers she's ever seen, and Eowyn could be more than a little frightening when truly worked up, but this is beyond a spousal spat or irritation with needlepoint.

"Eomer," Eowyn spits, with as much venom Lothiriel has ever heard her direct in anyone's direction, let alone her beloved brother's, "has chosen to ride for the West-mark on the morrow. To treat with Dunlendings."

Lothiriel's eyes widen. The Dunlendings and Rohan have been each other's enemy for generations. Treating with them would likely not be seen favorably by the majority of the Rohirrim. For Eomer to consider doing so meant something truly dire has occurred and a tendril of worry curls under her breastbone.

"And he has asked Eothain to accompany him," Wilfled spits. "What's worse is that the idiot has agreed to it!"

 _That_ surprises Lothiriel. Wilfled is nearly at the end of her time, and Eothain has been devoted to the point of hovering of late, causing chuckles from the men and rolling eyes from the women.

But how could Eomer go into a possibly life-threatening situation without Eothain? His strongest captain and most loyal friend? Ada would not have treated with any Umbar prince or Harad merchant without Elphir present, even when Alycia had been pregnant with Alphros. The two situations are not so different. But that logic will not soothe her friends here and now. Lothiriel can sense the hurt under Wilfled's ire, the worry behind Eowyn's fury. She must tread lightly, to try to make them understand what she suspects is happening: that Eomer is doing this for his country's good.

"Surely he has good cause for such an extreme measure," she says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. She has taken to wearing it down as often as she wears it up, now days, and is suddenly glad for the camouflage it offers her highly readable face.

"Eothred, damn the man, claims the Dunlendings want to trade with us. Pelts for food, as if we have food to spare," Eowyn hisses.

"What do we owe the Dunlendings, besides recompense for the damage they have caused, the lives they have taken?" Wilfled asks, hands moving anxiously over her swollen stomach. "Are their lives worth more than the life of my husband? Of his men?"

"Of course not," Lothiriel assures her. She pauses for a moment, thinking of the few Harad merchants and traders who lived in Pelargir, who had been thought uncivilized and dangerous until they'd been allowed to move into the city. True, there were stark contrasts in their cultures, but they were people, with families and hopes and fears, just like their Gondorian counterparts. Were the Dunlendings so different? "But they are not worth less, either."

Wilfled's eyes are slits as she raises her gaze from her stomach. "What do you mean, Lothiriel?"

Heat floods her face. "I only...Eothred mentioned they were women and children. The Dunlendings, I mean, and that they are starving and sick. They pose little threat to either Rohan or Eomer and Eothain...to ignore this cry for aid would be wrong, especially if a small show of friendship here could begin the ending of the strife between your two peoples."

Her heart feels as if it is _throbbing_ in her chest, anxiety creeping up behind her breastbone. Wilfled's expression is shifting from suspicion to disdain, while Eowyn simply looks stunned.

"You think the offering of food would be enough to end the Dunlendings' hatred of us?" Wilfled asks. "That by aiding these sad, weakened people, when their tribes are whole and hale again, they will spare _our_ young and sick?"

"I-I do not know," Lothiriel stammers, wishing for Erchirion, for Naneth, for Faramir, for someone else who was not of the Mark to understand her thoughts, her horror at the thought of children like Eofor and Alphros and Darwyn shivering and starving when aid could be given to them. "I know I do not understand what the Dunlendings have done to Rohan-"

"No, you do not," Wilfled spits. "You could not possibly understand-"

"We may not like what she is saying, Wilfled," Eowyn interrupts, looking somewhere between thoughtful and annoyed, "but I suspect she understands my brother's motives better than either of us at the moment."

"I do not care for Eomer's motives!" Wilfled cries, shooting to her feet. "I do not care for those starving children, or their mothers, or their fathers who murdered our people! I care for _my_ husband, _my_ son, _my_ unborn child-what will become of us, if Eothain is killed, Lothiriel? Have you thought of that? Have you thought of how many nights I have laid awake these past months, not knowing whether he lived or died? And now that I have him back, you would have him ride off to aid people who have slaughtered our kin for generations?"

"Wilfled-" Lothiriel stutters, shame choking her-of course she hadn't, how could she? She had only been thinking of the larger picture, of what such a truce would mean for Rohan-

"No, of course not," Wilfled continues on, blue eyes flashing fire, "how could you grasp how I have felt, how I feel now? You are no wife, no mother! Your fears are your own, limited to yourself and your concern that you are too foreign to belong-"

"Wilfled!" Eowyn cuts across, voice sharp. "That is enough!"

Lothiriel feels tears stinging behind her eyes and turns her face away; it hurts, not only because Wilfled has laid her worst fears bare, but because it is true, every bit of it. She cannot know, cannot begin to fathom the depth of Wilfled's fears. What does she know of love, of motherhood?

"It is not enough!" Wilfled roars back. "Neither of you can know, can understand, can-"

And then, suddenly, she is crying, her words completely incomprehensible between gasps and sobs. Lothiriel flinches, stopping herself from reaching out to her. She doubts Wilfled wants her comfort at the moment, at odds as they are. It is Eowyn who steps forward to embrace the sobbing woman, letting Wilfled tuck her face away against her neck.

"Wilfled, you are not yourself," Eowyn says, stroking her hair. "Tell us what truly troubles you."

Wilfled's tears do not abate for a few moments. Finally, she lifts her head, eyes red. "I am frightened," she murmurs. "I am scared down to the marrow of my bones, and it is a fear that nothing besides Eothain riding home again, safe and sound, can abate."

"And you think we cannot understand that fear?" Eowyn asks. "Both Lothiriel and I have sent men we love to battle, to certain death."

"But not your husbands," Wilfled spits, a bit of the earlier bite reentering her voice, "not the fathers of your children. The love I bear him...it is more than I can express. If something were to happen to him, the pain of it would consume everything within me until there is nothing left. What then, would become of Eofor? Of this babe?"

"You are not my mother," Eowyn says, voice brittle. "Your love for Eothain is strong, but you would never leave your children to be orphans."

Lothiriel blinks, stunned; she has heard much of Theodwyn in her time in Edoras, but nothing of the manner of her death.

"I fear that I would, and this fear makes me like a feral creature," at this she turns red eyes on Lothiriel, "who strikes at those who do not deserve it."

"But you were right," Lothiriel mumbles, twisting her necklace round and round, "I cannot understand-"

"But I have not said things with such venom," Wilfled says, voice sounding stronger. "You were seeing things through eyes that I also do not understand. Please, Lothiriel. I was wrong to speak so harshly."

She stretches out a slender, trembling arm in Lothiriel's direction. Eowyn opens her arms as well, and they collapse in on each other, faces pressed closely together.

"A mess, we three," Eowyn finally says. "Duilin was right to send us from his shop."

Wilfled groans. "Do not give that smug bastard the satisfaction of knowing such a thing. We shall never hear the end of."

Lothiriel chuckles slightly. "That is for certain. He still has not let me forget the time I mixed up the Rohirric words for 'barn' and 'ale house'."

"Those two words are scarcely similar-"

"Ah," Lothiriel says, feeling comforted enough to tease by Wilfled's soft smile and Eowyn's hand between her shoulder blades, "but both things are known to contain _egþwirf_."

The two women stare at her in shock before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, your first joke in Rohirric!" Eowyn laughs. "Eothain will be ecstatic."

"I suppose Duilin has taught you some unladylike words after all," Wilfled sighs, smiling despite herself.

"Someone ought to," Lothiriel counters. "Though still no one will tell me what _glómmung_ means…"

"And you shall not hear it from us," Wilfled says. "And I think I need to rest now if," and here she pauses, looking shamefaced, "if we…if you can forgive me, Lothiriel."

Lothiriel will not forget the sting of her friend's words, but her fear-the fear of losing her husband, her fear for her children...she can well understand where the poisonous words had come from. "You have my full and free forgiveness, Wilfled. I am sorry I was insensitive."

Wilfled squeezes her hand before settling back into the chair. "Not insensitive, _glómmung cwén_. Perhaps naive."

Lothiriel has always thought that calling someone 'naive' was often used as a way to easily dismiss their opinion without challenging one's own, but she does not with to quarrel with Wilfled again so soon, and lets the matter rest.

* * *

She finds herself wandering down to the stables later, apple in hand. Supper had been a subdued meal, with everyone clearly absorbed in their own thoughts and worries. Wilfled had thankfully been more composed than earlier in the afternoon, though her body remained angled away from Eothain much of the time they had sat together during the meal.

Eowyn, though, was a little warmer, sitting in her usual place by Eomer's side and conversing quietly with her brother.

Erchirion had been strangely silent until Lothiriel had prodded him for the reason behind it: he has not been asked to accompany the eored to the West-mark.

"And this offends you?" Lothiriel asks, surprised at her usually sensible brother's rancor.

"Not offends," he sighs, rubbing his eyes. "I understand that as a foreign prince, I am a liability. But it feels wrong, to be unable aid our friends when they need it."

"Well, I am glad I shall have one less person to worry over," she murmurs, bumping her shoulder with his. "And I suspect Lisswyn will be also."

Erchirion's eyes go soft, tender. "That does give me some comfort."

And Lothiriel could have chosen to broach the matter then, to push to know what exactly her _idiot_ brother thought he was doing, but she is too weary from the day's events for that particular conversation. So she chooses instead to excuse herself, intent on brushing Niphredil's mane, an action that has always helped calm her in the past.

The stables, though, are full of activity. Riders hurry to and fro, preparing their horses and saddles for the journey ahead. One of the stable lads spots her and helpfully shows her to Niphredil's stall.

Her horse nickers gently at her as she approaches. Lothiriel cannot help but smile. " _Wes þū hāl, swēte_ ," she says, stroking the mare's nose.

"Your accent is much improved," a familiar voice says, making her jump.

Niphredil neighs her displeasure, but Lothiriel cannot help but smile over her shoulder at him. "When one begins at the bottom, the only way to go is up," she says.

"Another Dol Amrothian phrase?" Eomer asks, stepping closer.

"That bit of wisdom is from Pelargir, I'm afraid," she answers, unable to keep what is surely a foolish smile from her face. She cannot help herself. Ever since their return from Aldburg, it is as if an army of butterflies take flight in her stomach whenever she so much as looks at him. Logic tries to weigh them down with thoughts of his impending departure and how short a time she's truly known the man, and yet the tumble persists.

"Another place in Gondor I could apparently learn much from," he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Lothiriel is glad her fingers are already buried in Niprhedil's mane, so she cannot give in to the traitorous impulse to feel his smile under her hands. "I think we Gondorians have a lot to learn from Rohan," she says instead.

The grin fades a little. "Such as?"

Lothiriel meets his eyes, forcing herself not to marvel overlong at their color. "Eomer, what you are doing for the Dunlendings-"

"Ah," he interrupts, frowning. "That."

"Yes, that," Lothiriel continues on, trying to follow his sudden shift in mood. "I think it is one of the most noble things I have ever heard of."

"I have not agreed to help them yet, Lothiriel," Eomer says, sounding weary. "This could be a scheme, or a trick-"

"I know," she says, wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how. "But it is noble, nonetheless."

They are both silent for a moment, Lothiriel turning her attention back to Niphredil's already immaculately combed mane and resolutely ignoring the heavy weight of Eomer's stare.

"I did not want to help them," he says suddenly, unbidden. "When Eothred first mentioned it, I had every intention of refusing them aid on principle."

That startles her into facing him. "What changed your mind?"

She almost jumps out of her skin when his hand brushes hers, hidden away against Niprehdil's neck. "A pair of fresh eyes."

The butterflies tumble about her stomach and heat blooms in her cheeks. He cannot mean-!

"I-Eomer, if you have done this for _me_ ," she stutters, feeling as if her heart is near to beating out of her ribs.

"Not _for_ you," he says, meeting her eyes. " _Because_ of you. There is a difference."

His hand slides to clasp around her elbow, loosely, and Lothiriel can feel herself tremble. "Then I must do something in return."

He stiffens when she gently pulls her arm away from him, but watches her closely as she reaches behind the loose mass of her hair to unclasp her necklace. "Naneth-my mother-gave this to me before we parted ways in Minas Tirith. It is a scallop shell, which among my people is supposed to signify protection for long journeys. My brothers each had one before they left to fight in the War. My mother thought it only fitting that I be just as well protected as them, no matter how safe my destination."

Eomer is still staring at her, confusion creeping into his expression. "What would you have me do with this necklace of yours?"

"Wear it," Lothiriel manages to say, pressing it into his open hand. "Take its luck with you. I am no warrior, and your armor will offer far better protection than a silly trinket can provide, but…"

Eomer's hand closes over hers, the still-warm metal of her necklace only separating their palms. Though they are touching nowhere else, she is certain he can feel her trembling.

"I know," she starts, willing herself to sound calmer than she feels, "I cannot ask you to promise to return, but...please, Eomer, be careful."

"You say that as if you are asking me to do something difficult," he says, frowning slightly.

Smiling in spite of herself, Lothiriel answers, "Forgive me for saying so, Eomer King, but I have heard enough tales from my brothers and your sister to know you often put the safety of others ahead of your own. A noble quality, if not a very smart one."

The corners of Eomer's mouth twitch, his fingers moving slightly over hers. " _Byrnihtu cwén._ "

Lothiriel blinks at the new nickname, processing. The meaning dawns on her, and she finds herself swatting him with one hand, trying to pull the other from his grasp in the same moment, "I am not prickly!"

Eomer chuckles again, sounding far too unfazed by her outrage. His gaze slides over her and for the first time, Lothiriel acknowledges the heat in it. Her skin seems to tingle, despite her displeasure. "Not in body, perhaps…

"Insufferable man!" She cries, pushing down the torrent of butterflies again.

Eomer's laugh is louder this time and a few heads turn in their direction. Abruptly, Lothiriel recalls they are in a crowded stable, after all, shielded from view only by Niprhredil's large body.

She takes a quick step back from him, to a more proper distance. Their hands, however, stay clasped between them around her necklace. Suddenly he is lifting her hand to his mouth again, the way he had weeks before, and presses another kiss to its back. The heat of this one Lothiriel feels all the way down to her toes and she cannot help her sudden intake of breath.

"I swear on my honor as a king that I shall do my best to repress my more reckless tendencies," he murmurs, every word bringing another brush of his lips over the back of her hand. Lothiriel finds herself shivering, despite the nearness of Niprhedil's warm body.

"I am sure Eothain will tell me the truth of it, when you return," her voice sounding miraculously more steady than she feels.

Eomer groans, letting their hands lower. "Of course he will, the traitor."

"You have no one to blame but yourself for our friendship," Lothiriel counters, feeling a little less likely to waver on her feet. "Well, perhaps Rohan's traditions regarding blue dresses-"

He groans again, a more serious expression on his face. " _Bema áhilpe mec_. _That_ is something you can promise _me_ in our absence: do not encourage my riders to court you."

"I have it on very good authority that if a Rider of Rohan wants to court me, I will know it," she says, thinking of Lisswyn's teasing. "So far, I do not think there are any interested parties."

Something in Eomer's expression shifts then, relaxes, almost, but is quickly replaced by a smirk. "Subtle, we Eorlingas are not."

"That we can agree on," Lothiriel says. Giving Eomer's fingers one last squeeze, she extracts her hand. "May the Valar protect and guide you, Eomer King."

"I thought that was what your necklace was for," he murmurs, earning a thorough swat with Niprehdil's brush. "Farewell, _glómmung cwén_."

Lothiriel waits until his footsteps have been swallowed up in the general commotion of the stables to press her face against Niprehdil's neck. "Sweet Elbereth," she mutters.

Niprehdil's snort seems almost amused.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, as many of you are very detail oriented, you'll notice that I've made another small adjustment (or addendum, if you will) to canon. Yes, in the novels, the Dunlendings formed an alliance with Gondor, which made them allies with Rohan via that way. But for argument's sake, let's assume not all of the tribes had healthy enough representatives to send or didn't want to risk travelling the distance required to reach Minas Tirith to appeal to Aragorn. Thus, the idea of at least one group of Dunlendings deciding to reach out to a much closer monarch. We'll meet these particular Dunlendings in the next chapter, and I hope you'll give this plot a chance before imagining Tolkien rolling in his grave.

On the romance front, I have no comments other than this: writing these two flirt is so much fun, and I hope it's just as enjoyable reading it for y'all.

 **Terms:**

 _ganet breguweard:_ swan prince

 _æwisc:_ shame, disgrace

 _hefigytme_ _mægþ:_ troublesome girl

 _stearcmód láréow:_ stubborn teacher

 _egþwirf:_ asses (donkeys, but the joke remains)

 _wes þū hāl, swēte:_ hello, sweet

 _Bema áhilpe mec:_ Bema help me


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Back again, guys! Thanks SO much for the sweet reviews; I'm so glad y'all all seemed to enjoy the last chapter :)

Unfortunately, our favorite duo are separated for this chapter (and a good bit of the next one), but they'll feature heavily in each other's thoughts, I promise!

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

* * *

The ride from Edoras to the far reaches of the West-mark is a long one, made all the more so by a number of rainstorms and the knowledge of what was awaiting them at the end of their journey. Still, climbing down from Firefoot's back and being welcomed into the village's small hall is a comfort.

"Hail, Eomer King!" The village's steward, Ceorl, greets. "I am glad to see you, my lord."

"If only it were under better circumstances, my friend," Eomer agrees, clasping his arm. "Has there been any change?"

"More and more people are reporting stolen food and missing animals," Ceorl admits. "But there has been no violence of yet. The men are getting restless, and I fear if any of the Dunlendings are caught, they'll make an example of them, child or not."

"After all the death this country has seen, these bastards would murder a starving child?" Eothred growls.

"Their children are hungry too, Eothred Marshal," Ceorl sighs, sounding as if he has made this argument before.

"Peace," Eomer says, knowing Eothred's temper and Ceorl's smooth implacability. "When and where have they agreed to meet?"

"At the turn in the river, a mile outside the village," Ceorl says. "Tomorrow morning, if you are able."

"I would much rather get the damn thing done tonight," Eomer admits, letting his frustration over the long ride and how little he had wanted to leave Edoras at all bleed into his voice.

"I hardly think that's wise, sire, seeing as how you're as irritable as an Orc at the moment," Eothain chimes in. "I, for one, would rather see this thing go smoothly, than have to explain to your irate sister why the new king of Rohan is missing an arm."

And had he not promised to avoid his more...reckless habits? Meeting with a group of dubiously peaceful Dunlendings in the faint twilight light can be called little other besides ill-advised.

"In the morning then," Eomer begrudgingly agrees.

Ceorl's relief is obvious and he sets about finding a few servants to bring food and ale to the meager hall. Eothred begins to badger the man with questions as soon as they're seated-which farms have been raided, if the frequency is escalating, have they been able to speak with any of the Dunlending children-and Eomer listens to the steward's answers as well. It is clear the town is stretched to the breaking point, and he finds himself glad to be able to aid his kinsman, even if it had meant leaving Edoras behind.

 _Is it just Edoras you were loathe to leave?_ The damned near incessant voice in his head mutters.

"What's that, then?" Eothain murmurs, interrupting Eomer's thoughts.

"Hm?" He says.

Eothain nods toward the neckline of Eomer's jerkin, where his fingers are absent-mindedly tangled in the delicate silver chain of Lothiriel's necklace. It has become a habit, in the week's ride from Edoras, to distract himself with the pendant during moments of stillness or contemplation. For all that it looks dainty enough to break under the slightest strain, the chain is strong, almost stubborn.

 _Not unlike its giver,_ the voice supplies unhelpfully.

"A necklace, Eothain, what does it look like?" He snaps.

"I did not know you cared for such things, sire," Eothain says, the question obvious in his voice. Eothain is as nosy as Eowyn, when his interest is piqued, and Eomer has to suppress a groan at his captain's expression.

"It was a gift," he begrudgingly admits.

Eothain's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. "A gift? What sort of gift? I did not think you were courting anyone-"

Eomer spews the sip of ale he's just taken all over the table, startling Eothred and Ceorl into silence. _Damn_ Eothain's meddling!

Eothain holds his hands up in a placating gesture, clearly reading the growing ire on his king's face. "I meant no offense, Eomer-"

"Then hold your tongue," he spits, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It is not a _máþþumgifu_. Do you think I would even consider beginning to court someone, with the state the Mark is in?"

His captain frowns. "Is that why you have not begun to court-" He clears his throat abruptly, seemingly thinking better of what he had originally intended to say. "Is that why the councilors' suggestions are so distasteful to you?"

It is, at least in part. What woman of good sense and breeding would willingly bind herself to a country-to a king-on the edge of disaster? If not the Dunlendings, Orcs will come, if not Orcs, then some other calamity. How could he even start to consider a potential wife-a queen-when he still is struggling to feed his people, to heal the wounds left by the War?

The other part is decidedly less kingly, and has been fixated on long, dark hair, full lips, and the gentle flair of hips from underneath a blue gown. _Bema_ , the way she'd looked at him in the stables. The warmth of her fingers caught in his-more calloused than he would have thought, something her time at Edoras has probably caused-the flush in her cheeks when he'd kissed the back of her hand. The memory has caused him more than little trouble in the nights since. Even _worse_ were the dreams that came after. Dreams where he slides his hands into her hair and kisses that smiling, teasing mouth into silence. Dreams where the stable is empty and quiet, where there are no councilors hounding him, no impending clashes with Dunlendings to call him away-

"Sire?" Eothain's voice interrupts him again.

Shaking his head to clear it, Eomer sips his ale again. "I will consider taking a wife when both myself and the country are ready for it, not before."

"Not to mention what Eowyn would do to you, should you choose someone without taking her opinion into account," Eothain chuckles, clearly letting the matter rest.

"She'd skewer him, or get that fancy Gondorian lord of hers to do the job," Eothred chimes in unhelpfully, having finished his discussion with Ceorl.

"Encouraging the death of your king is treason," Eomer grumbles.

"Behead us then," Eothred snorts, "but remember, you'll face Wilfled's wrath if you do."

Eomer laughs, in spite of himself, and Eothain joins him, a fond expression on his face.

"I cannot think of a more frightening prospect than that," Eomer admits, clapping Eothain on the shoulder. ""Let us rest so we can meet the Dunlending situation with fresh eyes in the morning, and have you returned to your wife before the next week is out."

"A good choice, sire," Eothain chirps. "I can only imagine what the outcome would be should she have to come to fetch us."

* * *

Lothiriel is well aware that she is blessed that everyone in Edoras is in a strange mood-some foul, some anxious-that no one notices her own admittedly odd behavior. Blushing every time she passes the stables, reaching absently for a necklace that's no longer there...neither thing would be considered typical of her, under ordinary circumstances. Had any of her friends been less distracted, less ill at ease, she has no doubt she would be up to her neck in questions, concerns.

As it is, Master Duilin is not nearly as frazzled as the rest, and so it is his sharp tongue that finally calls her out.

"By the Valar, girl," he grumbles at her as he pours her fifth consecutive failed coltsfoot brew onto the floor, "what's come over you? Your head has become more straw-filled than the king's stable!"

Heat flares in her cheeks-of all the phrases he could have chosen, that particular one conjures too many memories, too many thoughts. She keeps her eyes on the floor, willing her face to remain inscrutable, despite her blush. "I am sorry, Master Duilin, it is only-I have not-well, you see-"

"Valar preserve me," he groans. "Tell me now, girl, and quickly: what fool of a horse lord has captured your fancy?"

Horrified that she's been so easily read, Lothiriel can only shoot to her feet in mortification. "Sir, you go too far!"

Duilin snorts. "Do not give me that clap-trap, girl. I am nigh eighty years old and have seen enough lovestruck mooning in my time to know its signs now."

Gaping at him, she can only open and close her mouth, feeling utterly like a fish gasping for air. "I am not lovestruck!" She cries.

Duilin arches an eyebrow at her, clearly unconvinced.

Flushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel snatches the nearest mortar and pestle, grinding at whatever herbs linger there at a frantic pace. "There is-there is no one, Duilin, and nothing to remark upon."

He snorts. "This 'no one' must be unsuitable in some way for you to deny his existence. What is it? Too poor, too common? You would not be the first princess to have your heart ensnared by a roguish soldier-"

"He is no rogue," Lothiriel snaps, affronted on Eomer's behalf before she can have the presence of mind to stop herself.

Duilin's smirk grows. "Oh ho! So there is such a man."

"No, I-it is not-he is a _friend_ ," she insists. If nothing else, Eomer is certainly that. "He is not my suitor, Duilin, I swear it."

The old man snorts. "Aye, a 'friend', is it? Captain Eothain is your friend, and I doubt thinking of him leaves you addlepated as a girl in the first blush of youth."

"I-" Lothiriel starts, and then stops. She cannot deny that what she feels for Eothain-who has become something of another brother to her, with all his teasing-and what she feels for Eomer are two entirely different kettles of fish. Oh, she's been infatuated before, shared a few stolen kisses with a number of Amrothos's friends in the garden in the upper levels of Dol Amroth's royal apartments, but none of that had made her feel as flustered, as shaken as the kiss Eomer had pressed to the back of her hand. "I...I was told that if a man of Rohan wished to court me, it would be obvious."

Duilin snorts again. "Obvious to him, or obvious to you?"

At that, Lothiriel frowns. "What do you mean, Master Healer?"

"Only that for such an intelligent woman, you can be utterly unaware when the men of Rohan are paying you a compliment," he says.

"I know that my dark looks are intriguing to them-" she starts, but he sticks a single, gnarled finger in her face, silencing her.

"Do you know how to gauge whether you have the affection of someone of the Mark, Lothiriel?" Duilin asks suddenly, fixing her with a piercing look.

Lothiriel ponders this for a moment. "Read through layers of teasing and embarrassment for signs of their admiration?"

Duilin chuckles, mirth making him look years younger. "In some cases, I should note, in this case, I do not mean a singular person. Rather, do you understand what it means to have earned the _people_ of the Mark's respect?"

Lothiriel swirls the drink in her glass, reaching up to twist her necklace only to remember that it's no longer in her possession. Duilin is not one for riddles or puzzles. The man's way of thinking is as straightforward as his speech, meaning she must know the answer to his question. She is certain of Eowyn's affection, of Eothain and Wilfled and Lisswyn's as well. Gamling and his wife, Cwenhild, have been kind to her, and Merthwyn's good-natured teasing had been a balm after Bledgifu's insults. Even a number of Edoras's serving women and craftsmen always greet her during her daily walk from Meduseld to Duilin's shop. But what is the common denominator? What did they all have in common besides showing her, at minimum, courtesy and good-will?

"They...the nickname, the one I don't understand," she says slowly. "Is that it?"

Duilin inclines his head. "I'm glad you've cleared some of the straw from your head, girl. Yes, the Eorlingas have an admirable quality of expressing their respect for a person through a name. Eorl the Young, Theodred the Noble, _Eomer Eadig_...even Eowyn has earned her name, as Lady of the Shield-Arm."

"And what nickname did they give you?"

His lips quirk up into a wistful smile. "Ah. I was lucky enough to be given two."

Lothiriel considers what she knows of both her teacher and the people of Edoras. They regard him with something between fondness and exasperation, reverence with a touch of resistance. Duilin's temper is legendary, as are his tongue-lashes, but there isn't a person within the city walls that wouldn't trust him with their sick child or injured spouse. His fellow healers grumble and complain about his lingering Gondorian practices, but can hardly find fault with their effectiveness. Once they have both taken a few fortifying sips from their mugs, Duilin begins his tale.

"I was the third son of a minor lord, unlikely to inherit or do much of anything besides be a threat to my brother's children. Too small, too weak for a sword, too smart to not be conscious of it. So when Morwen Queen was married to Thengel King and they returned to Rohan, my father thought it wise to offer me as an apprentice to her healer. Better that I should waste away in the Mark, rather than Minas Tirith's court to know that Duilin was too weak to be a soldier."

Lothiriel frowns, squeezing his hand. "It was your father's loss and Rohan's gain."

"Yes, I've always thought so," Duilin says, a hint of his usual attitude back in his voice. "And the art of healing came to me much more naturally than firing a bow or swinging a sword. My master was kind, the work enjoyable, and Edoras became my home."

"So what was the nickname?"

Smiling, Duilin chuckles. "Thengel King gave me my first one: _felaæte tunge_."

"Sharp tongue," Lothiriel translates, smiling as well. "I wonder why."

He tuts at her. "My temper was even swifter then than now. It's a miracle neither the king nor queen had me thrown out of Edoras for my cheek."

"They loved you," she says, testing the thought out.

"They were more my family than my own had ever been," Duilin agrees. "There is not such a divide here, as there is at home, between royalty and the rest. I was more of an age with Morwen than my master was, and we became fast friends.I was there for all five of her and Thengel's children's births, every sickness, every broken bone."

"That is why you're so blunt with Eomer, and Eowyn," Lothiriel surmises. "They're like grandchildren to you."

"Yes, as was Theodred," he smiles a little at the memory. "There was more of Morwen in him than the rest of her grandchildren, for all that he looked like Theoden in miniature."

"I wish I could have known him," She murmurs. "Boromir always spoke about him as if he hung the moon."

Duilin gives her a sharp look. "I think he may have, for your cousin."

Lothiriel blinks, startled. It was not common knowledge, the depth of Boromir's affection for the Crown Prince of Rohan-how could it be, when both of them had been expected to carry on their familial lines, to command men, to rule entire countries? She is not sure what the people of Rohan would have made of the bond between them, but it was not a thing discussed in Gondor. But if Duilin had been something of a grandfather to Theodred, it would be no surprise that he had known the truth. Eomer certainly does. The thought of him makes her blush, again, and reminds her to circle back to the original intent of the story. "You said you had two nicknames, Duilin."

"I did," he agrees. "And the second came from Theodred himself. _Lȳt ealdefæder_."

 _Little grandfather_ , Lothiriel thinks. It was no small thing to be named thus by a prince. Sucha a name speaks of deep affection and acceptance, something beyond any sort of monetary value for Duilin. She understands, now, why he has remained in Edoras, even after Thengel's death and Morwen's return to Gondor. But why he seems so certain of the people's regard for her as well still baffles her: _glómmung cwén_ must have some sort of deeper meaning.

"Duilin, what does my nickname mean?" She asks. "No one will tell me, but I feel as though I cannot accept your certainty without knowing the truth."

"You are aware that the Elves refer to the people of Rohan as 'the Men of Twilight'?"

Lothiriel nods. "Yes, as Gondorians are the High, the Men of the West."

Duilin lifts one of the bigger tomes that she's been translating words out of, turning to a page and offering it to her. "Read this. And I think you'll see why I'm so damned confident you have more Rohirric swains than you know."

"... _ielde of glómmung_. Men...of Twilight?"

"Which would make you…?"

"Lady Twilight," Lothiriel whispers. "They...that is what they think of me?"

"I think the people of Rohan would be more than happy to keep you, girl," Duilin says gently, patting her hand. "As they have kept me."

She contemplates this for a moment, hand pressed to her lips. That she has earned such a title...oh, she scarcely deserves it!

"Has your suitor named you thus?" Duilin asks, interrupting her thoughts with a wry look.

"He is _not_ my suitor," Lothiriel argues. "But yes. As well as another name." Duilin waves his hand as if to say, _well, get on with it_. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, despite her tutor's smug look. " _Byrnihtu cwén._ "

He chortles, giving her shoulder a brusque pat. "And you say he is not a rogue! What fool of a man would court a princess by calling her prickly, eh?"

"One who isn't courting me at all," she counters. The thought makes her sad, foolishly enough.

"Then he is doubly a fool, to not see the value of what lies before him," Duilin grumbles in a rare moment of sweetness.

"Why, Master Duilin!" Lothiriel cries, pushing her _ridiculous_ sense of disappointment away. "I do believe that's the kindest thing you have ever said about me."

"Yes, yes, I shall not make a habit of it," he says, flapping his hands in her direction. "Start again on the coltsfoot brew, girl, and do try not to waste anymore of my supplies."

* * *

The morning dawns bright and with more than a slight bite of cold. The snows will start soon, especially in the more mountainous regions. It adds more urgency than ever to solve this crisis, for the villagers cannot afford anymore missing food, and it is unlikely the Dunlendings could survive the impending weather unaided. As per the instructions agreed upon by Ceorl and the Dunlending representative, they meet at the bend in the river, where a natural bridge had formed long ago and been tended to diligently by the villagers in the intervening years. There will be no weapons, no horses. Only armor and three representatives from both sides.

Ceorl and Eothred, known to the Dunlendings already, are obvious choices, though Eothain scowls magnificently when Eomer places a stalling hand on his shoulder as he steps down from his horse. "Not this time, Eothain."

"What kind of captain would I be, to not follow my king into peril?"

"The kind of captain who's expecting another little one any day now," Eothred says, with a roll of his eyes. "Ceorl and I are more than enough to protect Eomer King, and I for one do not volunteer to be the one to tell Wilfled-or your sister-that you needlessly put yourself in harm's way."

Eothain mutters a curse. "I do not like this."

"None of us do," Ceorl agrees, "but I have seen the state of some of these children with my own eyes, captain, and that I like even less."

Grumbling all the while, Eothain steps back towards the small guard that has accompanied them. In the early morning light, Eomer can just make out three figures across the bridge. There is a thin smattering of trees beyond them, but they're too empty of leaves to offer any sort of camouflage for assassins. They are as prepared as they possibly can be, and Eomer has to simply trust that the Dunlendings' intent behind this is as true as his is.

 _Bema_ _áhilpeþ mec_ , Eomer thinks, hand coming to rest absently on the now familiar sea-shell pendant.

* * *

Leagues away in Edoras, Lothiriel is having a much more sedate morning. Duilin, claiming patients to attend to, has sent her away from their usual lessons. The great hall is mostly empty, with a few servants bustling to and fro. Lothiriel knows her presence will demand their attention-she is a guest, and a royal one at that-so she clutches her parcel of letters to her chest, determined to find somewhere else to catch up on what her family has written her.

Eowyn has been waylaid by Merthwyn, planning the Yule activities. Wilfled has been weary of late, the last month of her pregnancy weighing heavily upon her. Lisswyn has been harder and harder to find in the past weeks. As to the reasons why, Lothiriel would like to remain blissfully unaware. As such, she finds herself truly alone for one of the first times in what seems like _months_.

"Are you lost, _glómmung cwén_?" Comes Cwenhild's familiar voice.

Lothiriel blinks, coming out of her reverie. She can hardly help but smile reflexively at the nickname, now that she knows its true meaning. _Lady Twilight indeed_ , she thinks, brushing a lock of her dark hair over her shoulder. "Just searching for somewhere to read in peace, I'm afraid," she says, nodding down at her letters.

Smiling, the older woman loops her arm through Lothiriel's free one. "I think I know just the place for you, _min déore_. Free from nosy serving girls and would-be-suitors, to be sure."

Blushing slightly, she allows herself to be led without complaint. Without Eomer and Eothain in the capitol, and Erchirion suspiciously occupied of late, she has noticed a few of the remaining riders paying more attention to her. It's making it rather difficult to stay true to her promise to Eomer; already, three men have offered to accompany her on rides, and she's found sprigs of dried flowers on her pillow the past two nights in a row. It would have been alarming had not one of the serving girls admitted to being paid "handsomely" to put it there for an ardent suitor. Leofa, bless him, has appointed himself her protector though Willfled claims he still directs "cow eyes" in her direction whenever Lothiriel isn't looking.

While flattered-and, if she's being honest, a bit bemused-there is not a man in Edoras that she would truly consider as a suitor.

 _At least not one here currently_ , a little voice whispers, and Lothiriel can feel the annoyingly familiar heat of a blush in her cheeks. "I would appreciate it, Cwenhild."

They make their way down one of the outer hallways, decorated in the way much of Edoras is. Tapestries hang from the wooden paneled walls, the columns are intricately carved; it could be any hall in Meduseld. The difference, however, is revealed when Cwenhild pushes the door at the end open with a smile.

"Oh!" Lothiriel gasps.

"This was Morwen Queen's garden," Cwenhild explains. "I believe Master Duilin still collects some of his supplies from here, and Merthwyn has been known to tend it in the warmer months."

The slowly approaching winter weather has robbed the garden of its bloom, but there is no denying the place's beauty. It is neatly tended, despite the lateness of the season, and the smell of rosemary and thyme reminds Lothiriel very much of the kitchens of Dol Amroth in the fall. Homesickness rises in a sudden lump-oh, she loves Edoras, loves its people, loves Eowyn and all the rest-but the sudden longing for her home city's walled gardens and days spent with Naneth clipping flowers in the sunshine hits her with the force of a wave.

"My lady?" Cwenhild asks, taking her silence as displeasure. "It's not much-"

"No, it's perfect," Lothiriel breathes out, trying to keep the tears from her voice. "Are you sure no one will mind if I sit here?"

"Not in the slightest," the older woman assures her. "Keep track of the time, though, it's known to get a wee bit chilly in the afternoons at this time of year."

Promising to do so, Lothiriel settles onto the nearest bench. Her letter stack is thick: two from Naneth, two from Alycia ( _and Alphros_ , cries the second letter), and one a piece from Ada, Amrothos, and Faramir. Choosing to read the oldest one from her sister-in-law first, Lothiriel slides the letter open. The familiar, if faint, smell of Aly's perfume greets her-saffron and jasmine, sent to her monthly by her family in far away Umbar-and Lothiriel has to stop to press her nose to the parchment, just for a moment.

 _Dearest Thiri,_

 _How I miss you! Alphros asks for you constantly-indeed, I think I shall have to help him "compose" a letter to you before long-and though your brothers will not say so, I know they wish you home again as well. The afternoons are quieter without you. Elphir would say more peaceful, but I have caught him often enough turning his head to catch your eye at some of Amrothos's more ridiculous antics, only to realize you are not there commiserate with._

 _Thank you for inquiring after your niece, who is certainly doing her best to live up to the House of Dol Amroth's penchant for mischief. Nemiriel is already twice as fussy as her brother ever was, and I am more grateful than I can say for dear Naneth's help with her. She has grown so much already, and so quickly, that I can scarcely believe it. Your kind gift of the woollen blanket is much appreciated. I expect she will carry it around for years to come, the way you used to do with your old doll._

 _Oh, but I do not mean to make you feel guilty for remaining in Rohan. For if Eowyn is as lovely as your letters and dear Faramir's lovestruck professions make her out to be, you are right to help her. But enough of my ramblings! Tell me more of your friend, the captain, and his fiery wife. Or better yet, this handsome king of yours? Yes, Lothiriel, that is precisely described him in your last letter: handsome, though I suspect you did not mean for it to slip out. I have never seen this Eomer King, though Amrothos tells me he is 'very tall, very blonde, and a great warrior'. I suspect there must be much more to him than that, if he has caught your interest-do not deny it, not to me, dearest, who knows you best-_

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel is very glad indeed that she thought to read her letters far away from prying eyes.

* * *

To say the Dunlending ambassadors are not what he expected would be an understatement. Before him, swathed furs and dark clothes, stand a crone, a youth, and a woman, all staring at him intently with the dark, slanted eyes of their people.

"Ceorl, Eothred," the youth says, his accent thick but Westron clear, "this is your king?"

"Aye," Eothred answers. "Eomer King is here to listen to what you have to say."

The boy keeps his arm around the crone, who looks to have seen at least seventy winters. White-haired but clear-eyed, she gives Eomer a sharp once over, as if trying to discern who and what he is under his armor. She says something in the harsh, hard language of Dunland, and Eomer grits his teeth when the younger woman gives a sudden bark of laughter.

"Heled says she did not know the straw-heads had a mountain for a king," the younger woman laughs, her Westron less accented than the boy's. "She says it's no wonder our men could never reach Edoras, if you are what the horse lords look like now."

Eomer starts to bristle-just because they had not reached Edoras does not mean that many of his other kinsman had escaped bloody, violent fates-but Eothred's sudden chuckle startles him out of his anger. "As charming as ever, Dera."

"Charm is as useful to me as teats on a bull," the younger woman says, chin jutting up defiantly. "I did not come here for _charm_."

"Then why have you come?" Eomer asks. "Why have you asked me here, if not for mockery?"

Heled says something, again in Dunlendish, reaching out to touch the younger woman's arm. Dera's defiant posture softens and she nods at the elder before returning her attention to Eomer. "We have heard tales of you even here, in the far reaches of your kingdom, _Eomer Eadig_. You have been a leader and a warrior long before you were a king. There is honor in that. And so, there must be honor in you, even if you are a straw-head."

Eomer forces his face to remain blank at the insult. "I thank you for the compliment," he says, irony lacing every syllable.

The youth sighs, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. "We Dunlendings value strength and valor-" he graciously ignores Eothred's snort at that, and continues on, "and while some of the tribes seek to place their trust in the King of Gondor, we thought it better to trust in a man we know something of."

 _Better the enemy you know than the enemy you do not_ , Eomer thinks, remembering something Theoden had said to him long ago. "I understand," he says. "What would you ask of me, of my people?"

"Food," Dera says. "Winter is nearly upon us and the usual herds of deer...are not here. We have pelts enough for our tribe three times over, but we cannot eat beaver fur or bear-skin."

Eomer can see Eothred's eyebrows rising towards his hairline out of the corner of his eye. "Are you telling me that your people can take down the bears that live in these woods?"

Dera's chin juts up again, this time in pride. "Yes. Even without the majority of our men-folk. But the bears sleep the winter away, and the river will soon freeze over and the beavers will retreat into their dams. We cannot feed ourselves or our children with animals that are not there."

"You realize the Mark is short on food as well?" Ceorl asks. "The War has not been easy on us either-"

"The War," Dera says, eyes flinty, "has brought my people nothing but death. Sweetly whispered promises from that-that _demon_ in a white cloak-"

"Saruman," Eomer says, seeing a tentative thread of connection between Eorlingas and Dunlendings, "was not a friend to either of our people."

Dera and the youth spit at the ground at the White Wizard's name, while the crone makes a gesture that no sane man would ever call polite. "I am glad it was not just our people who fell victim to his tricks," the youth says. "I told my father his promises were poison-"

The crone's sudden grip of the boy's hand cuts him off, and Dera hisses something at him in Dunlendish. But the sentence is already out in the open, the implications behind it hanging in the air.

"And just who," Eothred drawls, "was your father, boy?"

There is a rush of whispering between the three Dunlendings-angry, harsh sounds, that make the hair on the back of Eomer's neck stand on end-but finally, the boy steps forwards, back straight. He cannot be more than four and ten. He has not yet grown into his feet or shoulders, and his face still bare, round with the softness of youth. But his eyes are dark, and old, and in that moment, braver than many a man Eomer has ridden into battle with. "I am Madoc, son of Cadoc. I will pay for my father's sins against your people if it will give the children of my tribe food and peace."

Eothred curses, lowly, and Ceorl claps a hand to his shoulder. Cadoc had been known throughout the Riddermark as a Dunlending of the worst sort. Murderous without provocation, known to steal women from their beds and toss children from moving horses...there had been no worse villain before the War, no man that he and Theodred had hunted with more determination, or with less success.

"He is dead, then?" Ceorl asks, breaking the silence. "You lead the tribe?"

"No," Dera answers, stepping forward, angling her body between them and the boy's. "I do."

"You?" Eothred scoffs.

"Me," she agrees, smile as sharp as a knife. "And if it is Madoc's life you want in payment for food, you are no better than the bastard who gave him life."

Eothred opens his mouth to say something-what, Eomer can only imagine-but he stops him with a hand. Turning his focus back towards the three Dunlendings, he says, "I do not stand with murdering children, no matter who their fathers were. And this War has taken enough from both our peoples."

A year ago, he would not have hesitated to at least capture this child, to ensure he would not rally the tribes around him for vengeance for his father's death, no matter who had killed him. But after Pelennor and Morannon...Eomer is weary of fighting, weary of killing. How many other boys are like him, on both sides of the Isen? Can he ask them all to bear the weight of their fathers' actions? His own father had been a good man, but as a marshall of the Mark, it was likely he had killed tens, if not hundreds, of Dera and Madoc's kinsmen. Undoubtedly Dunlendings would curse his name-Eomund, of Aldburg-if they were to hear it, as much as Eorlingas curse Cardoc, curse Freca from the old legends.

Madoc eyes him. "You would have peace?"

"I would," he agrees, surprising himself.

The crone laughs, suddenly, startling them all. She murmurs something to Dera, who grins, shooting Eomer look that's so utterly reminiscent of Eowyn that he almost takes a step backwards in surprise.

"What did she say?" Ceorl asks.

"She says something must have softened your heart, horse-lord," Dera says, arching an eyebrow. "And I think she is right."

It takes every ounce of Eomer's self control not to reach for the pendant hidden away between his jerkin and the mail beneath it. Eothred notices the twitch of his hand, but wisely says nothing. Ceorl, on the other hand, ignores the action entirely.

"Let us talk terms," he says, sounding every inch the steward he is, "for peace is more likely the quicker we agree on what our peoples can gain from each other."

Pushing thoughts of soft skin and softer smiles from his mind, Eomer forces himself on doing the impossible: creating the first peaceful contract between his people and their oldest enemies.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Much as I love writing romance, there are bigger games a-foot in Middle Earth than Eomer and Lothiriel dancing around each other! This chapter we get our first look at the Dunlendings-who are, as someone correctly pointed out a few chapters back, according to Tolkien a sort-of spin on Celtic tribes to the more Anglo-Saxon based Rohirric society. And I couldn't resist giving Duilin a little bit more backstory; he's going to feature prominently throughout the rest of the story, so I wanted to flesh him out a bit more for y'all as well.

On the romance front: Lothiriel and Eomer aren't _nearly_ as subtle as they think they are. (Or do their friends just know them too well?) They'll reunite next chapter though, friends, so fret not!

 **Terms:**

 _máþþumgifu:_ gift of treasures; in this instance, jewelry, but can vary depending on the wealth/status of respective people in a courting couple

 _felaæte tunge:_ sharp tongue

 _lȳt ealdefæder:_ little grandfather

 _Bema_ _áhilpeþ mec:_ Bema help me

 _min déore:_ my dear


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Back again, friends! Sorry for the delay in posting; work's been very busy lately! Thanks to y'all for sticking it out with me :) and a huge thanks to the sweet **UntilNeverDawns** for the SUPER sweet review. Made my whole day and pushed me to crank out the last bits of this chapter!

And I know I promised our favorite duo would reunite this chapter buuuuut plot got in the way. I know, I know, I'm sorry! But there are other good things happening, I promise!

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

* * *

The peace-talks with the Dunlendings are exactly that: peaceful. After years of battles and slaughter and insurmountable enemies, it seems the Gods have finally smiled on them. Or, at least that's what Ceorl says, during the few hours they spend away from the bend in the river.

"As promising as this treaty is," he reminds Eomer, as if he has never negotiated a truce before, like he's some wet-behind-the-ears _boy_ and not the King of the Riddermark, "we need to remember that it is only with this tribe. The others will not recognize it unless they send their own representatives."

Each Dunlending tribe holds a particular animal sacred-the eagle, the bear, the beaver, and so on-and their people pride themselves on emulating their respective familiar's most defining trait. Madoc and Dera's tribe is of the fox, known throughout their people for their cunning. So it comes as no surprise that these...fox-people are excellent negotiators, ready at every turn to offer an agreeable compromise while still getting most of what they want. On the surface, it would be easy to say that it's Madoc who leads his people-heir to the former Chief, level-headed despite his youth-but Eomer has seen enough trading agreements before to see where the power truly lies. It is Dera who counters Ceorl's arguments, Dera who has clearly considered the resistance of both her people and the Eorlingas in the town to such a treaty.

"How is it," he asks, "that you lead in place of Cadoc's son?"

Dera smiles, her expression uncharacteristically soft. "Madoc is still just a boy. Was just a boy when his father-the bastard-made that devil's deal with the White Wizard. Our men are gone, straw-king, and the oldest boys left are younger than him. How could they lead, when they know so little of the world?"

"So it fell to you," Eomer says.

"It fell to me," she agrees. "My mother was-what is the word? The healer. She was respected, resilient. But healing has never come naturally to me. I could not be as she was, but I could become what the tribe needed."

Eomer thinks of Eowyn, so long burdened with the role of Meduseld's Lady when all she had wanted to do was fight. What would she have become had Wormtongue's plan had succeeded? The thought disturbs him, even though he knows the slimy _cifesboren_ is beyond all threats of pain now. "Do you ever regret it?" He asks.

Her brow furrows. "Regret? Regret what? Keeping my people from starving, removing us from the White Wizard's reach? It was not an easy task-still is not-but it had to be done."

Their paths have not been all that different, Eomer realizes. He certainly never expected to be king, never expected Saruman-their long-time ally-to turn on his people, never expected to sit on the banks of the Isen discussing peace with a warrior-queen of Dunland. "I understand," he says.

She smiles, amusement plain on her face, and again he's reminded of Eowyn. "I know you do, straw-king. That is why I am still here, speaking of peace."

* * *

In the end, the treaty they agree upon is decently satisfactory to both sides, if not entirely without flaw. The villagers will allow the Dunlendings to be given space enough to bring their housing materials within the safety of the walls of the village in exchange for ceasing their theft of eggs and other foodstuffs. In turn, the Dunlendings have agreed to show the villagers their methods of preserving food for the winter months, as well as sharing their vast wealth of pelts to be used for blankets and cloaks.

Eomer and his eored agree to stay until the Dunlendings are settled. The village is depleted in men, like so many other places in the Mark, and their presence is a comfort to both sides. Protection is something their being there guarantees, as well as ensuring that this tentative truce is not ruined before it can truly begin.

" _Helle_ ," Eomer hisses as the Dunlendings trail across the bridge. The snow has begun to fall and he is more glad than ever to have made this journey. The children are worryingly thin, the smallest ones scarcely more than skin and bones from where they peak out of their mothers' stick-like embraces, or from behind their older siblings' backs. And Dera had not been lying; Madoc was the oldest _cnihtcild_ by far, the only one who could even remotely be called a youth.

"Do you see now why I pushed for this?" Eothred murmurs. "To have refused them aid would have been a death sentence."

"Bema," says Eothain, eyes wide. "I have never seen children so thin."

The villagers, once having seen the state of the smallest Dunlendings, seem to let go of some of their fear, their reticence. Though, in truth, Eomer blames them for neither. Their peoples have been at war for the better part of two Ages, and this tiny truce is just that: small. It is possible that it will have little to no effect on the overall relationship between Dunlendings and Eorlingas in the long run.

"It is a good thing you have done, _Eomer Eadig_ ," Ceorl says, as if he can hear his thoughts. "A very good thing."

A gaggle of children-dark-haired Dunlendings and fair-haired Eorlingas-have gathered in a circle, eyeing each other cautiously. One blonde girl offers out a raggedy-looking doll to a Dunlending boy. The care with which he takes it from her hands is evident even from Eomer's vantage point.

" _Plægeaþ_?" She asks.

The little boy offers her a very confused expression. Dera leans down to translate and the meaning becomes clearer. All of the children break into motion; playing, as the girl suggested.

"If only adults were as welcoming as children," Eothred grumbles.

"We have had longer to fear one another and caused each other more pain than those children will ever know," Dera says, coming to stand beside them. "But I believe this peace has the potential to last."

"We will have word if it does not," Eomer says. "On either side."

Dera nods. "You do your people credit, straw-king. Perhaps you are as blessed as they say."

There is a sudden shout and disgruntled-looking Madoc appears, with Heled on his arm. There is a short exchange between the three in Dunlendish-after two weeks, Eomer thinks he has begun to get used to how the language sounds, if not well-enough to know what any of it means-that results in Dera giving the boy a sharp thump to the side of his head.

"Violence already!" Teases Eothred, who is more at ease with the Dunlendings than the rest of them put together.

Dera rolls her eyes. "Hardly. The idiot boy was nearly neglectful in his duties."

"I remembered in time," Madoc grumbles, the youthful petulance in his voice reminiscent of Eomer's youngest riders. "There's no need to embarrass me, Chieftess."

Heled shakes a finger in the boy's face once more before turning her attention towards Eomer. Her eyes are as piercing as ever, and she holds his gaze as she takes a bundle from Madoc's arms and presents it to him with a brusque shove.

"What is it?" Eomer asks.

"Some of our finest furs," Dera explains. "Heled insists. Take them and our gratitude, straw-king, though neither are enough for what you have made possible here."

Heled says something then, that makes both Dera and Madoc burst out in laughter. The sound echoes, drawing the attention of the surrounding villagers.

"And what," Eothain asks-he has spent the least amount of time with the Dunlending representatives and remains distrustful of them, even now-"is so funny?"

"Heled suggests that your king give them to whoever has opened his heart enough to try for peace with Dunlendings," Dera laughs, "and while she sounds wonderful, I suspect it was not his warrior sister who has done so."

"Opened his heart?" Eothain repeats, sounding _far_ too interested for Eomer's peace of mind.

Eothred merely chuckles, "Who indeed, eh, nephew?"

* * *

"Lothiriel."

She jumps, tearing her gaze away from the merrily crackling fire to meet Eowyn's amused expression. "I-how long have you been calling me?"

"A good five minutes," Eowyn says, settling onto the bench beside her. "And I must admit I'm very interested to know why the hearth has earned such scrutiny."

Grateful that the warmth of the fire has already put a bit of color in her cheeks, Lothiriel twists a strand of hair around her finger. "Just thinking over a few things."

"Things," Eowyn repeats, deadpan. "Would it have to do with any of your numerous suitors I've had to shoo away from the rafters lately?"

Groaning, Lothiriel shoves her friend's shoulder. "They are _not_ my suitors, Eowyn, no matter how much you and Wilfled try to convince me otherwise."

"But someone _has_ caught your interest," Eowyn continues, nudging her. "Cwenhild said she found you sighing over something in the stables yesterday morning, and I have it on good authority from both Eothain and my _ungerád_ brother that there is no greater sign of a woman in love than excessive _sighing_."

"I scarcely recall you sighing over Faramir," Lothiriel answers, ignoring the traitorous racing of her heart at the mere _mention_ of Eomer-if it was this bad now, how was she supposed to pass for normal once the eored returned? The peace-talks with the Dunlendings had gone well and they had begun their journey to Edoras nearly a week ago. There was scarcely any time left to learn how to control her blushes, which would certainly give her away to anyone caring enough to look. "And I am not in love."

"Hm," says Eowyn. "There is a phrase from one of the books your mother sent me that comes to mind, _min drút_."

"Oh?"

Eowyn smiles, clasping her hands under her chin in a decidedly un-innocent expression. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

"Eowyn!" Lothiriel cries, face flushing once more.

"Fine, fine," Eowyn relents. "Keep your secret suitor. But do not forget how well I know you, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, nor how much I want to see your happiness."

Any irritation-and embarrassment-Lothiriel feels slips away at that, and she reaches out to squeeze Eowyn's hand. "That I cannot protest against."

Eowyn smiles. "I suspect you called me here for something other than teasing you, Lothiriel."

"Observant as always," Lothiriel agrees. "We are waiting on a few others, I'm afraid."

As if on cue, the doors from one of the many hallways open, revealing Edoras's chief _dreámere_ , Gléobeam. A jovial man, somewhere between his thirtieth and fortieth year, with a thick crop of blonde hair so common among his people, Gléobeam cuts an impressive figure in his musicians' robes, despite his relatively short stature.

"You have called upon me, _glómmung cwén_ , and so I have come!" He announces, taking a sweeping bow.

He also has the tendency to be in a state of constant performance, no matter how small the audience or how inappropriate the venue.

"Yes, thank you, Master Gléobeam," Lothiriel says, ignoring Eowyn's obvious attempts to hold back her laughter. "Did you have any luck in finding my brother?"

The musician's face falls. "I am afraid not, my lady! But I can send one of the minstrels to search for him again."

Sighing-Lothiriel _had_ hoped for Erchirion's help in this-she shakes her head. "No, I have an alternative since my brother is...otherwise occupied."

Eowyn arches an eyebrow at that-Erchirion and Lisswyn's secret has become decidedly less so, of late, so much to the point that Lothiriel is amazed that Eothain has not come barrelling back across Rohan's fields to remove her brother's head from his shoulders-which she resolutely ignores.

"What is the lesson today, Lothiriel?" Eowyn asks, seemingly having put two and two together. "I cannot fathom why we would need Master Gléobeam to help teach me how to be a proper Gondorian lady-"

The doors open again, revealing a very disgruntled-looking Duilin. "This had better be good, girl, to call for the canceling of our herbs lesson and cutting into my midday meal."

"Oh, it is," Lothiriel assures him, stepping forward to loop an arm through the Master Healer's elbow. "I had hoped for Erchirion's help, but as he has already found a diversion for this afternoon, I could think of no one else better suited to take his place."

Duilin blinks, looking from Eowyn to Lothiriel to Gléobeam and back again.

"What is this?" He asks in a dangerous tone.

"This, Master Duilin, is a Gondorian dance lesson," Lothiriel says sweetly. "One I trust you will help me give."

Duilin gapes at her while Eowyn grimaces. "Surely I have learned enough from my dances at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding-"

"Ah, but in that setting you were merely a guest," Lothiriel says, "which is _quite_ different from being the bride."

"Yet another one of Gondor's more ridiculous customs," Duilin grumbles, "as if a bride and bridegroom want to dance with any other person than each other!"

"I am sure Rohirric brides and grooms must also share," Lothiriel tuts. "Do you remember the steps to _Beren and_ _Lúthien,_ Duilin?"

"Impudent girl," he grumbles. "You know very well it is impossible for any noble Gondorian child to _ever_ forget those blasted steps."

"Good," Lothiriel chirps cheerfully, coming to stand before him. "We can show Eowyn together, then."

Gléobeam, already prepared for his cue, begins the familiar string music. Duilin drops into a bow, Lothiriel a curtsey, and Eowyn looks on with resigned interest.

"You know as well as I that your brother would have been a better choice for this," Duilin murmurs, low enough not to be heard over the music. "Why waste the time on me, girl?"

Lothiriel bites her lip, focusing her eyes on their wrists as they tap in the next motion of the dance. True, Erchirion is closer to Faramir's height, and younger, more spry, than her teacher. And it would have been easier for him to keep up with the intricate moves of the dance, easier for Eowyn to imagine Faramir in his place. "I thought it might please you both," she admits in a quiet voice.

Duilin arches an eyebrow, and while he may not be either Eowyn or Eomer's grandfather by blood, the expression is endearing in its familiarity. "Meaning?"

"Thengel King and Eomund Marshal are long dead," Lothiriel whispers, "and Theoden King after them. I know Eowyn will have Eomer, come her wedding day, but...I thought-"

She nearly trips over Duilin's feet as he falters; only a quick shift on her behalf keeps them from both tumbling to the floor. A muscle ticks in Duilin's jaw and Lothiriel sighs. She has offended him, somehow, made the wrong judgment here. Perhaps it is painful, reminding him of his own lack of blood-kin. Perhaps he was only truly close to Theodred, and this is an overstep of his and Eowyn's relationship.

"You are too kind to an old man," he says, suddenly, and the waver in his usually commanding voice has her lifting her head to look at him.

Oh, _Elbereth_ , the expression on his face. There is even the slightest bit of moisture in his eyes-it would embarrass him horribly, if she pointed it out-and Lothiriel squeezes his hand, offering him a smile. "I am only as kind as you deserve, Duilin."

He squeezes her hand back. They finish the dance in comfortable silence, accepting Eowyn's applause rather sheepishly.

"It may not have lifts as our dances do, but I think I can manage," she declares, coming to take Lothiriel's place in front of Duilin. "Certainly better than I am progressing with needlework."

"And this is an activity both you and Faramir can enjoy," Lothiriel says, grinning at the sudden blush in Eowyn's fair cheeks. "And it will hopefully provide less bloodshed!"

"I think I am beginning to understand how your not-suitor could name you _byrnihtu cwén_ ," Duilin grumbles. "Come now, Eowyn-"

But Eowyn's head has turned sharply in Lothiriel's direction, startling both her and Duilin. " _Byrnihtu cwén?_ " She repeats, something very, very worrying in her voice. "Lothiriel, I only know one man block-headed enough-"

"Gléobeam, play on!" Lothiriel cries abruptly, stepping back from the pair as the music begins again. Eowyn gives her an exasperated look, but gamely takes Duilin's hand. Lothiriel watches in a daze, only vaguely aware of the genuine happiness on her friend's face, of the low murmur of Duilin's occasional corrections.

Of _course_ Eowyn would have heard the name before and know _precisely_ who is making her prone to "excessive sighing." The song is only so long, even with the occasional stumbles from Eowyn, and Lothiriel knows she cannot escape the ensuing conversation forever. The doors to the hall suddenly burst open once more, startling the minstrels into silence and the dancing pair into stillness. Even with the sunlight nearly blinding behind him, there is no mistaking Eofor's mop of unruly red hair.

"Eofor?" She calls. "Is something the matter?"

He is breathing heavily, having obviously been running, but as he stumbles closer, Lothiriel can tell he is white as a sheet.

" _M-Módor_ ," he stutters, "the babe, she s-sent me for Master Duilin-"

With an agility Lothiriel hadn't known he possessed, Duilin is suddenly in front of the boy, placing his hand on his shoulders with a soothing gentleness. "How far apart are the pains? Has there been blood yet?"

Eofor goes even whiter, if possible. "No, n-no blood, she just said she would need you-"

Duilin nods, giving the boy's hair a ruffle before passing him off in Eowyn's direction. "Find some food for the lad. And send Mistress Déorwyn to Wilfled's house, as quickly as you can."

Gléobeam leaps into action, turning on his heel towards the doors leading to the midwives' huts. Eowyn gathers the now shaking Eofor into her arms, murmuring words of comfort in Rohirric that are too low for Lothiriel to make out.

"And find Lisswyn!" Duilin barks, already halfway out of the hall.

Realizing the last task must fall to her, Lothiriel hurries towards the kitchens.

 _Sweet Elbereth_ , she thinks, _let the eored be close._

* * *

Today marks their sixth day of travel at a breakneck pace, and understandably, most of the men are weary. Eomer would not usually condone such speed, especially with the thin layer of snow on the ground, but Eothain is visibly impatient to be home. He is well-liked and well-respected, as a captain, and no Eorlingas can begrudge him for wanting to be back in Edoras before the babe is born. It may help, too, that Wilfled's temper is somewhat legendary. Eothain had missed Eofor's birth, nigh eight years ago now, and the ensuing tongue-lashing he had received is still talked about.

Still, even the most season rider requires food and water. The horses, too, need rest if they are to make it home in one piece. So Eomer calls for a stop; they are perhaps half a day's ride from Edoras, now, and there have been no messengers with word of anything ill at ease either with Wilfled or the capital itself.

"Phew!" One of the younger riders cries, flopping dramatically on the ground. "You owe us all a round of ale for this, Captain!"

"Shut your gob, Fram," Caedda barks. "Man's got a bairn on the way, he has every right to want to get home as quickly as possible."

The men chorus their agreement. Food and water is quickly passed around, some men choosing to lounge on the ground, while others rub down their horses' tired legs. There is some more good-natured ribbing: bets on how long Eothain would be banned from his bed after the babe's birth, questions about names they've considered. All things to be expected questions for a father-to-be. But when Eomer turns to look at his friend, he finds Eothain's face drawn, almost frightened.

"I know it's foolish," Eothain say suddenly, voice low enough that only Eothred and Eomer can hear him, "but I feel as if I am there when the babe comes, there is less of chance-that Wilfled will-that nothing will-"

Eothred claps a hand to his nephew's shoulder. "That's just nerves, lad. Wilfled needs as little help from you in birthing a babe as she does in all aspects of her life."

Eothain snorts at that, but rubs a hand over his face, clearly still unsettled. "I wasn't there, for Eofor, and I promised her I would be for this child."

Eomer grimaces; it is because of him, because of the Dunlending truce, that Eothain has not seen his wife for the majority of the last month of her pregnancy. The guilt curdles uncomfortably in his stomach. "I am sorry, my friend. I should have sent for another captain-"

Eothain fixes him with a flat look. "And let those wee children starve to death in the snow while you waited for Fasthelm to ride from East-emet or Grimbold from Grimslade? There was no time for that, Eomer. I know my duties as a captain of the Mark."

"Still," Eomer starts to say, "if there had been any other way-"

"You would have done it," Eothain interrupts, finally smiling. "I know that, sire. I suspect if you could have passed this whole venture off on someone else, you would have."

"I do not regret making peace with Dera's tribe," Eomer says, quirking a brow at his captain's suddenly mischievous tone.

"No, that I do not doubt," chuckles Eothain, "I was referring to perhaps another reason you would be loathe to leave Edoras."

Oh, _helle_. Six days they have ridden, and for six days neither Eothain nor Eothred has brought up Heled's less-than-delicate parting remark. It seems his good luck is finally at an end.

"Yes, I wondered about that myself, nephew," Eothred chimes in, grin widening, "who _could_ this mysterious woman who's softened your heart be, eh?"

"Eothred," Eomer hisses.

"I think I could hazard a guess, uncle," Eothain answers, the bastard, "and I suspect I am correct in saying that these furs will look lovely against her dark hair."

Eomer groans. "Do not encourage him."

"It seems that you are the one who needs encouragement, lad," Eothred chortles, slapping Eomer's shoulder. "She's a fine lass, lovely and true, and you've been dragging your feet!"

"I am not-" Eomer starts to hiss, but Eothred waves him off.

"Eomer, son of Eomund, I have known you since you were a stripling lad with your first saddle-sores. I've seen you mooning over lasses before, heard tales from this one," he jerks a thumb in Eothain's direction, who shrugs helplessly, "about youthful tumbles in the hay, but _never_ have I seen your head as turned about as it has been by this Gondorian filly."

"Must we refer to her as a horse?" Eomer grumbles, tugging at his hair. "I am not Firefoot, Eothred Marshal, and despite what the Dunlendings would say of us, I have little desire to spend my nights with a mare-"

"Ah!" Eothain cries, grinning dangerously. "But you _do_ have some desire to spend your nights with the lovely lady from Dol Amroth."

"Who wouldn't?" Eothred offers.

Eomer shoots him a fearsome stare. "She is a princess, Eothred," he growls. "Not the sort of woman you can just spend one night with."

Eothain snorts. "She could be a scullery maid and still not be the sort of woman you should only spend one night with." And then he blinks. Processes. "If not one night...then all of them? And your days, too?"

"I-" Eomer begins, and then stops himself. Bema, is that what he wants? There could be no casual dalliance with a woman like Lothiriel. No meaningless flirtations, no stumbling steps back towards the nearest ale house-even as he thinks it, he recoils from the idea. Lothiriel is a _princess_ , and even if she hadn't been, she deserves better than that. Deserves to be courted properly. To be shown all the admiration, the affection, that those Minas Tirithian bastards have so long denied her, to be appreciated for her quick wit, her sweet humor-

"Oh, _helle_ ," he says, suddenly.

Eothred bursts into laughter while Eothain merely grins, thumping his back. "S'alright, sire. I thought you wouldn't figure it out until at _least_ Yule."

"Yule?" Eothred laughs, mopping at his eyes. "I didn't think he'd know it until Eowyn's wedding!"

Eomer is mercifully spared from responding by the sudden call of a horn. A messenger approaches, thundering closer on their mount. A young rider, by his armor and helm, not to mention the carefree way he swings down from his horse to offer a jaunty waves. An older eorlingas would have delivered his message before dismounting, and a wiser one would know the tension his presence would immediately bring to the group.

"Hail, Freca!" Caedda calls. "What news from Edoras?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, Caedda," the boy-and he is that, spots revealed when he pulls the helmet from his head-answers. "The councilors are pleased with the report of the treaty going well, the horses have begun to be brought in from the pastures, Eothain Captain's wife is in labor-"

There is an explosion of noise at that, and Eothred has to yank Eothain backwards to keep him from strangling the youth.

"What?" Freca asks, looking less carefree. "What did I say?"

"Mount up!" Eomer yells. "We ride for Edoras!"

* * *

Lothiriel is nearly at her wits' end. She has been to the kitchens, the pantries, the larders (twice), Eowyn's solar, the council room-though she was rudely shouted out by a number of cantankerous council members-and now stands in Morwen Queen's garden, ready to pull at her hair.

Lisswyn can usually be found in any number of these places-it was no secret that Merthwyn considered her a natural successor to the leading Housekeeper position at Medulseld-and yet she is conspicuously absent. Remembering Gléobeam's earlier failure to find Erchirion, she can only sigh at the implication.

"My lady?" A familiar voice calls. "Is there any particular reason you're standing in Morwen Queen's garden, groaning loud enough to shake the walls?"

Flushing to the roots of her hair, she offers Cwenhild a helpless smile. "None that I would trouble you with, Cwenhild-oh!" She cuts herself off, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the strawberry-blonde child on the older woman's hip. "Hello there, Darwyn."

"'Lo, lady," the little girl giggles, offering her a wide smile.

Lothiriel runs a hand through the girl's hair-she looks so much like Lisswyn but for her eyes, which must have come from her seldom-talked-about father-before looking up to Cwenhild cautiously. "How long have you been watching her?"

"An hour or so, I'd say," Cwenhild says, arching a brow at Lothiriel's question. "Is something amiss?"

"Wilfled's labor pains have begun," Lothiriel says, wincing at the older woman's sudden intake of breath, "and Duilin sent me to find Lisswyn, though I know not why."

Cwenhild sighs, setting Darwyn down so that she might pluck at the few remaining leaves in the garden. "No, I suppose you wouldn't know. It is an old tradition, begun in the first years of the Mark. When a child comes into the world, we call upon Vana to bless and protect the babe. In order to draw the goddess's attention and protection, the oldest living relative of the woman in labor is present in the room, to help fill it with prayers, for both the babe and its mother. She serves as the _mǣg_ , or sister-helper, and if anything happens to the mother, it is she who will take on her role for the child. "

Horror creeps icily up Lothiriel's spine. "And it would be considered very ill-luck for a babe to be born without a _mǣg_ , I assume."

"Very ill," Cwenhild confirms. "If a woman has no female relatives, a close friend may stand in, though given the average size of families in the Mark, it's somewhat of a rare occurrence."

"Cwenhild," Lothiriel says, "do you know where Lisswyn is?"

The older woman shakes her head, biting her lip. "I agreed to watch Darwyn for the afternoon. I suppose she is not in any of the usual places?"

"No," Lothiriel agrees, thinking of some _truly_ inventive names to fling at her brother the next time she sees him. "And no one can recall seeing her after the morning meal…"

Cwenhild mutters a curse, which earns a wide-eyed look from Darwyn. " _Dollicu mægþ_! She could not have chosen a worse time to become so flighty!"

"Is there anyone else who might serve?" Lothiriel asks, a sense of urgency tingling unpleasantly in her stomach. "Wilfled has been anxious enough about the birth of this child without having to face it alone."

The older woman gives her a searching look. "Would you consider Wilfled a dear friend?"

"One of my very dearest," Lothiriel answers without hesitation. Then she can feel her mouth opening in surprise. "Cwenhild, you cannot mean _me_ -"

"I can and I do," she interrupts. "You have experience healing, are unlikely to faint at the sight of blood, and what's more, Wilfled trust you. _Eothain_ trusts you. I can think of no higher commendation than that."

"B-but I do not know the prayers! Surely, Eowyn would be a better choice-"

Cwenhild frowns. "Eowyn has seen blood on a battlefield, not a birthing chamber. And have you not a sister-in-law?"

"I-I do," Lothiriel stutters, "but an unwed maiden would never be allowed in the birthing chamber in Gondor-"

"Bah," Cwenhild interrupts again, swinging Darwyn up on her hip with practiced ease. "They should be, lest some man try to convince them that birthing a child is an easy feat. Go, _glómmung cwén_ , and be Wilfled's _mǣg_ while I try to find her errant sister-in-law."

Lothiriel gawks at her for a moment longer before the older woman all but shoves her back towards the door. Nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste, she hurries back through the Great Hall and down the steps of Medulseld. People call to her as she passes, some in greeting, some in curiosity, but Lothiriel hears none of it, the blood rushing behind her ears. Naneth had been with Alycia during Alphros's birth but Lothiriel had spoken the truth: in Gondor, even in Dol Amroth and far-away Pelargir, unwed maidens were not allowed in the birthing chambers. Apparently, it was thought that witnessing such an event would turn the maiden off childbirth-and therefore marriage-entirely. (That, or or it would give the young ladies such a rush of "child-fever" that they might find themselves in a compromising position while unwed. Personally, Lothiriel thought both theories utterly ridiculous.)

Still, the thought of seeing Wilfled in such pain frazzles her so greatly that she gets lost twice on the way to her and Eothain's home, finally stumbling in the door red-faced and panting.

"Wilfled?" She calls. "Mistress Déorwyn?"

"In the bedroom, my lady," comes the midwife's voice. "Is Lisswyn with you?"

Wincing, Lothiriel steps inside. Wilfled is clad only in her shift, slightly pink in the face, with sweat on her brow, but otherwise looks wholly normal. Mistress Déorwyn arches an eyebrow as it becomes apparent that there is no one trailing behind Lothiriel. Her assistants-two other midwives, both married and older than Eowyn-murmur to each other in surprise.

"Where is Lisswyn?" Wilfled asks, her voice slightly pinched.

"I do not know," Lothiriel admits, drifting closer to offer brush her friend's hair back from her face. "I have looked everywhere. Cwenhild has taken up the search, but bid me to come here and serve as your _mǣg_. I told her that surely Eowyn was a better choice-"

"Lothiriel, do shut up and hold my hand," Wilfled interrupts, still fiery despite the considerable discomfort she must be experiencing, "and if my sister-in-law doesn't turn up by the time this babe does, I would be happy for you to be their _mǣg_."

"Oh," Lothiriel says, feeling utterly _absurd_ tears prick in her eyes. "Wilfled, I-" And then Wilfled is gripping her hand, tight enough to hurt, and Lothiriel has to hold back a surprised yelp. "Elberth!"

Mistress Déorwyn huffs a laugh. "I suspect you and Wilfled both will both be invoking the gods' names in less than favorable ways."

"The...name that's going to get the most abuse is my husband's," Wilfled pants. "Especially since he is not here, again…"

"A rider was sent for the eored," Lothiriel promises. "They cannot be more than a day's ride away."

"Vana give them speed, then," Mistress Déorwyn says. "The second babe often comes a bit faster than the first."

"That is...no guarantee of s-swiftness," Wilfled mutters. "Eofor took _hours_. If not for Master Duilin's smelling salts-"

"Duilin was present?" Lothiriel asks, somewhat stunned.

"Of course I was," comes Duilin's voice, causing Lothiriel to jump. Wilfled huffs a laugh and Lothiriel sends him a glare over her shoulder. He has obviously come from his shop, arms laden down with a basket of herbs and vials. "Where else should a Master Healer be during a babe's arrival, eh?"

"Not in the room!" Lothiriel cries. "This-it is a woman's place!"

"The birthing bed is, certainly," Mistress Déorwyn agrees. "But no woman worth her salt would reject aid in any form when a babe is coming. Especially when it's coming from the same man who has helped deliver the past two generations of the Mark's royalty."

Lothiriel can only gape at them. A woman's closest female relative being nearby to offer support made infinite sense, surely, but a man? Even a man such as Duilin, well-versed in the art of healing and herbs-! The thought unnerves her. She would not want _any_ man to see her in child-bed, let alone her cantankerous and sharp-tongued teacher.

"Do stop gawking, _glómmung cwén_ , and do your duty," Duilin orders. "Cwenhild sent word that you'll be taking Lisswyn's place until she is found."

 _If she is found_ , Lothiriel thinks, cursing Erchirion's quiet charm and sincere affection as she does so. "What am I to do?"

Mistress Déorwyn smiles. "Aid Wilfled in any way you can. Wet rags are here, to help keep her cool. Distract her with stories, help keep her hair out of her face. Today you are her _mǣg_ , a sister in all but blood. That is no small thing, my lady."

She turns to look at Wilfled, who nods. "To think this babe will be waited upon by a princess! Eothain will go hoarse bragging about it to the other riders."

"Oh, stop," Lothiriel says, flustered. "Today I am no princess, just a friend who loves you dearly."

"And I you. I am sorry, though, for your poor hand," Wilfled huffs, offering Lothiriel a wry smile, despite her pink face."It will probably never be the same again."

"I consider it a fair sacrifice," Lothiriel says, squeezing Wilfled's fingers. Wilfled squeezes back, leaning back against the pillows. Lothiriel stands, anxiety and affection warring in her breast, until Duilin turns back from his basket of herbs and barks a laugh at her.

"The babe is not coming this instant, girl! Sit down and rest, while you can. Entertain us all with stories of Dol Amroth, or that troublesome brother of yours."

"Oh," Lothiriel murmurs, feeling foolish. Of _course_ the babe was not coming now; Wilfled's labor has just begun, and she has not gripped Lothiriel's hand in the same desperate manner in a number of minutes. Sinking into the chair one of the other midwives has pushed closer for her, she turns her face back towards Wilfled. "Where should I begin?"

"Tell me of your other brother," she says. "For knowing you and Erchirion makes me doubt you could have a brother as troublesome as my Eofor."

"Amrothos's tales of mischief could take _years_ to tell," Lothiriel says, smiling. "So I suppose it's a good place to start."

Even as Wilfled laughs at a story about Amrothos's mis-adventures while fishing in a too-small boat, Lothiriel spares a moment for a prayer all her own: _Elbereth, Vana, Valar: grant them speed. Let Eothain be here to put Wilfled's mind at ease._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I know I promised in the last chapter that our pair would be reunited, but plot got in the way! Soon, my darlings, soon. At least they're thinking-and being forcibly reminded of each other by meddling friends-eh?

But there's a lot to unpack in this one, so let's begin:

The Dunlendings' tribal structures are based on Celtic traditions, per Tolkien's canon. I've tweaked it a bit here, obviously, to better fit the story. Also, for anyone keeping track of faces, I'm personally imagining Megan Gale (otherwise known as Valkyrie from Mad Max: Fury Road) as Dera.

Of course Gondor would have a dance named after the most famous Elvish lovers, and of course all Gondorian noble children would be required to learn it. It's considered a traditional wedding dance, between bride and groom, and signifies the strength and significance of the bond they're entering into.

The tradition of the mǣg is of my own invention, but it was traditional for women-especially in societies resembling Rohan's-to be involved in the birthing process. Midwives generally ruled this area, and men like Duilin would not have been introduced until later, when men began to professionalize medical arts and push midwives into the realm of witchcraft. But this is fiction, and y'all didn't come here for an in-depth discussion about how much knowledge was lost when midwives were reduced in status/burned as witches.

On more plot related notes: OH HO HO. These two are so transparent, even people who've never met Lothiriel know there's *something* going on with Eomer. And hm where *could* Erchirion and Lisswyn be? (Hint: getting into trouble would be a good blanket term here.) The next chapter actually (I promise) has our favorite pair reuniting, as well as the arrival of Wilfled and Eothain's child. (Among other things ;) )

 **Terms:**  
 _cifesboren_ : bastard  
 _cnihtcild_ : young male child, youth  
 _Plægeaþ?_ : (We) play?  
 _ungerád_ : foolish, idiotic  
 _min drút_ : my friend  
 _dreámere_ : musician  
 _mǣg_ : sister-helper  
 _dollicu mægþ_ : foolish, rash girl


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Oh gosh, you guys, I'm so sorry for the delay! Thank you for the sweet messages from those of you worrying about me. Work has been crazy busy lately, I've recently signed a rental contract to share a house with some friends (real adulting, whoo!), and I snuck a couple of vacation days in there. In other words: not much time for writing. (Plus, this chapter would just NOT cooperate and required at least 3 different rewrites.)

I hope this chapter is worth the wait; it may be my favorite to date, in all honesty, and I can't thank y'all enough for the continued support of this story :)

And now, onward! (Oh, and since I know a lot of people don't like graphic scenes, I'll go ahead and tell you there is NOT one in this chapter. I've never given birth and didn't want to try my hand at writing it. So you're all good to read on!)

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

* * *

Lothiriel talks herself nearly hoarse, telling Wilfled stories of Amrothos's mischief. Even when the labor pains begin to come closer together, and more intensely, she keeps going, speaking of her brother's ill-advised sailing trips and flirtations with anything wearing a skirt. And it works, for a time, keeping Wilfled laughing between the waves of pain when she squeezes Lothiriel's hand hard enough to bruise.

But eventually, even stories of Amrothos's antics cannot distract Wilfled any longer. Yet Eothain has still not arrived. The rider that had been sent has not returned, either, which Lothiriel hopes to mean that he has found the eored.

After a particularly strong wave of pain-and hand-squeeze-Lothiriel finds herself slightly out of breath, and utterly depleted of stories about her silly brother. "Oh, Wilfled," she says, stroking her friend's sweat-drenched hair back from her face, "I am afraid I have no more funny stories to tell."

"That is very well, for I doubt I could manage a laugh now," she pants, managing a small smile despite her statement. "But keep talking, Lothiriel, it helps."

Helpless to deny her, but equally helpless to think of a suitably distracting subject, Lothiriel fidgets for a moment, biting her lip.

Duilin gives her a very unimpressed look. "I have never known you to struggle for words, girl, so do not start now."

She scowls at him for a moment, ignoring the other midwives' muffled laughter. Turning her attention back to Wilfled, she lays a cool rag on her forehead, trying to gather her thoughts. "Vana," she says, suddenly, "why do you pray to her, during childbirth?"

"She's the goddess of living things, of youth and rebirth," Mistress Déorwyn answers. "Surely you pray to her as well, in Gondor?"

"No, we pray to Varda-Elbereth, in Sindarin," Lothiriel admits. "She's the Queen of the Stars, regarded as the most beautiful and kind among the Valar, and any child born with her blessing is said to be guaranteed a long and happy life."

"It is the same, with Vana," Wilfled manages, "but she is the Queen of the Flowers."

"Queen of Flowers," Lothiriel murmurs, "how strange."

"What do you mean?" Mistress Déorwyn asks, sharply. "Are flowers any less dear than stars?"

Duilin lifts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Do not be offended on Vana's behalf, Déorwyn. I think Lothiriel has just realized there is a particular irony in her serving as a _mǣg_ on behalf of the goddess."

"Meaning?"

"My name," she says. "In Sindarin, it translates to 'flower-garlanded maiden'."

There's a nearly deafening silence as the room processes this. Lothiriel feels abruptly foolish-her parents could not have known when they named her that something like this would come to pass, that she would serve as a stand in for the very goddess of living things. To be named in reference to flowers was a common enough thing, in Gondor. It likely means nothing. Mercifully, the sudden clench of Wilfled's hand in hers distracts her. She croons an old Dol Amrothian lullaby, one Ada used to sing to her on nights that Naneth had been busy at the Houses or lingering in the kitchens after a feast. When Wilfled's breathing has returned to normal, she blinks up at Lothiriel, their hands still clasped.

"I think you were meant to be here, _glómmung_ _cwén_ ," she pants, smiling a little.

Lothiriel's mouth falls open in surprise. "It is mere coincidence, Wilfled!"

"But a happy one," Mistress Déorwyn interrupts, passing Lothiriel a fresh rag. "Surely you have learned by now the importance we Eorlingas put on names, my lady?"

Lothiriel can only gape at them. Her name was as un-Rohirric as possible, and Vana did not feature in any Gondorian prayers. It was a curious synchronicity-flower-maiden and Queen of Flowers-to be sure, but hardly _significant_! Not..destined, or indicating any sort of higher plan-

 _But perhaps it is_ , a little voice whispers, sounding suspiciously like Naneth, _perhaps you are_ _ **precisely**_ _where you're meant to be_.

"Even if I was named after a...a...weed, I would still be here with you, Wilfled," Lothiriel says.

"Weeds are still plants, _glómmung_ _cwén_ ," chimes in Duilin. "No doubt Vana would be pleased by that as well."

Wilfled huffs a laugh, briefly, before her hand clenches around Lothiriel's again, her face contorting in pain. There is a bustle of activity: Lothiriel angles herself closer to Wilfled's shoulders as the midwives pull back her shift. They murmur to each other low enough that she cannot make out what they're saying, but their voices are merely serious, not anxious or frightened. There is blood now, a bright red spot striking against the whiteness of Wilfled's shift, but Lothiriel has seen more in operating rooms and even in bandages of minor cuts. Neither Duilin nor Mistress Déorwyn look alarmed, so she forces herself not to be either, choosing instead to hum more of the lullabye into her now gasping friend's ear.

"Enough talk of names," Mistress Déorwyn orders, teasing tone gone, "this little one is nearly here."

As if on cue, there is the distant call of a horn from outside.

"The eored," Lothiriel whispers, gripping Wilfled's hand all the tighter. "They're close."

* * *

Eomer is thankful that it is past dusk by the time Edoras's gates rise into view. It means there will be fewer people milling about the city's roads, lessening the chances that Eothain might run one of them down in his haste. His captain is riding like a man possessed, though frankly, Eomer cannot blame him.

If it were his wife, his child-

Bema, but he's getting ahead of himself, with thoughts like that.

The stables have clearly been forewarned of their coming, as they're near to bursting with eager stable-boys and the Master of Horses, who is the one to accept Eothain's reins when he all but flings them from his hand.

"No news yet on the babe, Eothain Captain," he says.

Eothain spares him a somewhat civil nod before all but sprinting from the stables towards his and Wilfled's home. Eothred dismounts nearly seconds after him, passing his horse off to one of the older boys.

"Bema, he can move quickly when he wants to," he huffs. "We had best hope someone's already there barring the door, lest he try to burst in while the midwives are doing their work."

Eomer snorts, amused at the thought.

Eothred, however, quirks an eyebrow at him. "I'm serious, Eomer King. Eothain has never possessed a level head when it comes to that stubborn wife of his. Have you forgotten the _foranlencten_ incident?"

Two years before Wormtongue had come to Edoras, when there had been unrest but not yet outright war, Wilfled had scorched her palm during one of the season's traditional bonfires. Eothain had been nearly beside himself, despite the fact that Duilin's salve took away nearly all of Wilfled's pain. Duilin was not one to be easily intimidated, but even the long experienced Master Healer had been on edge under Eothain's steely stare whilst wrapping her hand. Imagining him being similarly brutish while the midwives attempted to aid Wilfled, now…

"Follow him, Eothred," Eomer groans. "I will join you in a moment."

His marshal offers him a firm nod before turning on his heel to chase after his nephew.

Herubrand snorts. "You'd best go too, Eomer King. I doubt one man will be enough to keep Eothain from attempting to beat his own door down."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eomer nods at his Master of Horse, who simply grins before clapping a hand to his back.

It's easy enough to wind the familiar path to Eothain's home-before he'd been king, when his uncle had been growing more and more ill with Wormtongue's poison in his ears, there had been no place he'd felt safer-but he can only groan anew at the sight that greets him. Eothain is a tall man-just slightly shorter than Eomer himself-and he has at least three inches on Gamling, and is using every one of them to tower over the older man, who stands between him and the door.

"Eothain, it is no place for you-" Gamling is trying to say, which draws a near snarl out of Eothain's throat.

"You've no right to stand between me and my wife, Gamling-"

"He does when there's a babe in the mix, you great lummox!" Eothred cries, marching up to join Gamling's position by the door. "What good do you think your sweaty, dirt-covered self will do a newborn babe, eh?"

Their yelling has attracted an audience and Eomer can only groan again as curious neighbors being to open their doors to catch a glimpse of the cause of the racket.

"Uncle, move aside-"

"I will not."

"Gamling-"

"I have become a father thrice over, Eothain Captain, and believe me when I say that your face is the last one that Wilfled will want to see right now."

It's faint, but Eomer can just make out a cry of pain from behind the door. Eothred's eyes flick over to his-Eothain's face has gone as red as his hair, the way it only ever does in the heat of battle, and Eomer knows his captain well enough to know he is contemplating something _truly_ stupid-and they move in unison, to pin him down.

Eothain yelps in surprise when they collide with him, all three of them toppling over in a swearing, sweaty pile.

"Get off of me, Eomer, or I will-"

"You'll do nothing to your friend and king, you great dunderhead," Eothred pants, finally succeeding in getting an arm around his nephew's throat, "and quit squirming before I strangle you in front of your own front door."

Eothain doesn't, of course, cursing them both, Gamling, and the door itself as he continues to fight them. The onlookers have only increased. Vaguely, Eomer is aware that this is likely far from king-like behavior. The sudden shock of Eothain's elbow being driven into his stomach makes that thought vanish and he shifts, trying to get a better hold on the other man's ribs.

"Um...E-Eomer King?" asks someone. A boy, judging by its tone. Likely a squire.

"What?" He asks, knowing himself to sound more than _slightly_ irritated.

"The council...they have asked for you, sire."

Eomer lifts his head-Gamling has joined the fray now, sprawled rather effectively across Eothain's legs-and gives the boy as even a stare as he can manage. "Tell the council," he says, reminding himself to keep his temper, that it is not the squire's fault that his captain is behaving like a soft-brained _fool_ , "that I am occupied, at the moment."

The boy scurries away to the sound of muffled laughter.

Eothain, damn him, is still fighting them, coming up with some extremely inventive descriptions of where they could shove their swords.

"Eothain, enough," he manages to grit out, "you're being an _esol_ -"

"You were the one who allowed me to push for home!" Eothain hisses back. "And now you stop me, not feet from my door?"

"There is no help you can offer Wilfled now, Eothain!" Eothred argues, sounding slightly muffled. "She has your sister, she has the midwives-"

"I am her _husband-_ "

The sudden shock of water being dumped on their heads stuns them all into silence.

"Oh, good, you're finished," comes Eowyn's familiar voice. "Now, I would appreciate it if you would kindly stand and act like grown men again, instead of children brawling in the dirt."

Wincing, Eomer clamors to his feet first, turning to offer Eothred a hand. Eothain remains where he is, hair plastered wetly to his head as he sits on the ground.

"What is it," Eowyn says, after looking them over for a moment, "about childbirth that reduces men to _gedwæsmenn_?"

"A question we women have been asking ourselves since the dawn of time," answers Cwenhild, appearing suddenly-and mercifully-with towels in hand. Eofor trails along after her, holding a toddling Darwyn's hand.

The sight of his son and niece seems to drain all of the fight out of Eothain, who accepts a towel to wipe most of the water off before opening his arms to both of them. Eofor all but flings himself into his father's embrace, Darwyn following along after. After they're both settled, Eothain stands, striding wearily over to a bench his nearest neighbor must have pulled out during the scuffle. Father and son talk quietly to each other as Eothred drifts closer to sit beside them, smiling slightly as Darwyn climbs into his lap, babbling happily.

Cwenhild fusses over her husband-Gamling merely smiles at her, waving off her concern-and Eowyn fixes Eomer with a look that can only be described as exasperated.

"What exactly," she asks, "were you trying to achieve?"

"We are dirty from the road-though perhaps less so now, after our impromptu dousing," he rolls his eyes at her snort, "and while I know little in the way of healing, I know enough to doubt that a sweaty rider would be welcome in the birthing chamber."

"A wise thought," Eowyn says, smiling slightly. She steps closer to him, wrapping her arms around his middle despite the dampness of his tunic. "I've missed you, Eomer."

Smiling despite himself, he rests his cheek on top of her hair for a moment. "And I you. I am glad to find Edoras still in one piece."

"You are horrid," she tells him, but he can hear the amusement plain in her voice. She steps back to poke him firmly in the chest. "And there is a matter of some importance I would speak to you about."

He eyes his sister-her demeanor is still teasing, still at-ease, and yet she speaks of something _important_. "Dare I ask: what?"

"Have you or have you not," Bema, her expression is positively smug, setting off alarm-bells in the back of his head, "called dear Lothiriel a _byrnihtu cwén_ to her face?"

Oh, _helle_. "Eowyn-"

"Because if you have, I must tell you that there are simpler, less strange ways to tell a woman you-"

" _Eowyn_ ," he hisses again, all too-aware of the people milling about, drawn by Eothain's earlier outburst. "Not here."

Rolling her eyes, she crosses her arms. "Fine. But you should know, Eomer-"

Whatever Eowyn was going to say is interrupted by the muffled-but unmistakable-cry of a babe. Eofor scrambles quickly down from his father's lap, clutching Eothain's hand tightly. Eothred remains seated, rocking Darwyn gently, and Eothain-

Bema, the hope and fear warring on his face.

The door opens a few tense moments later, revealing a smiling Mistress Déorwyn.

"You have a daughter, Eothain Captain," she says.

"Vana be praised," Eothain says hoarsely, squeezing Eofor's shoulder. "And-and Wilfled, is she-"

"She is well," the midwife answers. "You can go inside once her _mǣg_ is finished with the last blessing."

Eothain slumps, in relief, back down onto the bench. Eothred lays a hand on his nephew's shoulder in comfort, solidarity. Eomer has known Eothain since they were green boys, scarcely higher than their horses' knees, but he has never seen his friend quite like _this_.

The door opens again, interrupting his musings. Instead of revealing Lisswyn's shy smile and fair red hair, it's Lothiriel's weary but happy expression that comes into view. "Eothain, you can-"

He passes her without even noticing that it's the princess of Dol Amroth, not his younger sister, beckoning him in. Dimly, Eomer is aware of the crowd laughing, a few members of the eored who have joined in making quips about Eothain's speed in all things, but it is background noise, a mere buzz. He should be puzzled by her presence here-Lisswyn is the obvious choice to serve as Wilfled's _mǣg_ -but instead he is merely _glad_ to see her. Foolhardy and irrational as the thought is, he cannot deny it. Even though Lothiriel's normally neat braid is wispy, strands of hair falling all around her clearly tired face, she is lovely.

Eowyn elbows him, startling out of his reverie. "Go and change your shirt," she orders, gently. "Dunking or not, you still smell of horse."

"Such a kind sister I have," he grumbles, "so helpful, so generous-"

"Oh, hush," Eowyn says. "Go."

He goes, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder as he does so.

* * *

Lothiriel stands, dazed and slightly amused, as the door is pulled firmly shut behind Eothain's retreating form. Cwenhild's gentle hands lead her towards a bench-"Poor child, you look ready to faint! Sit, sit,"-and she finds herself sitting. She is tired, she is hungry, and this wooden bench may be the most comfortable thing she has ever sat upon. Likely that is the exhaustion talking, and she leans her head against the nearby wall of the house with a sigh.

Wilfled had been so brave, so strong, and while Lothiriel's hands might ache for the next few days from the force of her friend's squeezes, she is glad to have been there. Glad to have been able to help, in some small way, bring their dear child into the world.

 _And yet you did not help Alycia thus,_ a poisonous little voice whispers, _you would aid a woman you've only known for months over your own sister-in-law? You have already held Wilfled's child, but would not know your own niece if she stood before you calling your name-_

The gentle touch of someone's hand startles her out of her thoughts. She opens her eyes-when had she closed them?-and meets Eothred's concerned stare.

"Lass, are you well?"

"I am fine," she croaks, suddenly aware of the dryness of her throat.

Eothred frowns, waving someone over. One of the weavers appears, mug of something in hand. He presses it into Lothiriel's hand, waiting until she has taken a few fortifying sips of the ale to speak again. "It is no small thing you have done for Wilfled, my lady."

"I know," Lothiriel says. Bites her lip, rephrases, "at least, I think I know."

"They've told you what being a _mǣg_ means, yes?"

"A sister-helper," she recites. "Someone to pray for the mother and child during birth."

"In part," Eothred agrees. "But the bond is not so...limited as that. Oft times a _mǣg_ becomes the _cumendre_."

Lothiriel blinks fuzzily at him. She has heard that word before, while going over familial traditions with Duilin during their lessons, and yet all of that knowledge has turned to smoke, slipping through her tired fingers. " _Cumendre_?"

Eothred kneels before her, taking her hands gently in his. "Godmother, as you'd say in Westron. It's why a woman's _mǣg_ is usually a sister, or a sister-in-law, or a cousin. Should something happen to the mother, the _cumendre_ assumes her role in the child's life."

Abruptly, Lothiriel feels wide awake. "But-I will return to Gondor-I-I _cannot_ -"

"Now you've gone and frightened her to death, Eothred Marshal," Cwenhild scolds, clearly having been eavesdropping. "No one will expect you to abandon your life in Gondor to care for Wilfled and Eothain's daughter, _glómmung_ _cwén_. She has family here, and you have done enough already. Besides, Wilfled and Eothain are young, and healthy. The practice of _cumendre_ usually comes to pass in lean times, in times of war."

"I only say such a thing because Wilfled had a much more natural choice in _mǣg_ than the lovely princess here," Eothred counters. His hands are still around Lothiriel's, warm and calloused and dry, but she is far from comforted. "Where is Lisswyn?"

 _Oh, Elbereth_ , thinks Lothiriel, _this is not the time, how can I tell him without resulting in my brother's murder,_ _ **why**_ _have they not returned-_

"Lisswyn has been ill for two days," Cwenhild says before Lothiriel can collect her mad-dash thoughts. "The midwives would not let her so close to a newborn while her own condition was so poor."

Eothred, though, has not taken his eyes from Lothiriel. "Is that the way of it, my lady?"

His eyes, she realizes, are the exact same shade of cornflower blue as Eothain's, as Lisswyn's. It makes it even harder to choke out the lie, but lie she does, saying, "Yes, I'm afraid so, Eothred Marshal."

He examines her for a moment longer before slowly rising to his feet. "Regardless, my family owes you a debt, _glómmung_ _cwén_. I will not forget that."

"There is no debt," Lothiriel says, weariness seeping in again to mingle unpleasantly with the lingering panic. "Helping someone I love is its own reward."

Eothred smiles, just slightly, before Eofor appears to tug him inside to meet his new grand-niece. Cwenhild runs a gentle hand through Lothiriel's hair-the sensation is so like the way Naneth has always calmed her that she nearly cries, pressure building in her throat and chest and behind her eyes-before turning to answer her husband's call.

Lothiriel leans her head back against the wall of the house. She still feels on the verge of tears, and shuts her eyes to ward them off for as long as she can. Suddenly all she wants is to be home, back in Dol Amroth. To look over her shoulder and see Naneth and Ada discussing something by the great hearth, to reach out and pinch Amrothos's hand when he makes a bawdy joke, to stroke Alphros's hair as he sits in her lap so Elphir and Alycia can play a game of chess-

"Lothiriel?" Comes Eowyn's voice. "Are you well?"

She opens her eyes again, meeting Eowyn's concerned stare. "Fine," she says. "I am fine."

Eowyn's lips twist. "Lothiriel-"

She stands abruptly, startling her friend and herself. "I-I just need to walk, for a moment, to get some air-"

"But-"

" _Please_ , Eowyn," she whispers. "I need to clear my head."

Eowyn's hand drops and something like sympathy, something like understanding, enters her expression. "I will be in the hall when you return."

Lothiriel offers her a sharp nod. She is tired and strangely heartsick. Her thoughts are a whirl of Wilfled's pain, Eothain's joy, Eothred's obvious suspicion, coupled with her own gnawing worry about Erchirion, and Lisswyn, and their now nearly day-long absence. How honored, how humbled _,_ how _frightened_ she feels at the thought of taking on such a role for Wilfled and Eothain's daughter-oh, Valar, she hadn't even lingered long enough to learn the child's name!

She walks without noticing where her feet are taking her. It is not until the sudden nicker of a horse close to her ear startles her that Lothiriel realizes where she's wandered to: the stables. They are full of horses again, with the eored returned, though the stable boys have all mostly cleared out for the evening meal. A wave of tiredness hits her again and she forces her feet forward. There is a bench in the stall across from Niprehdil's that she's taken to sitting on when she needs a break from the hall. It has served as a quiet place to sit, to think, in the past and it calls to her now like a lodestone.

But before she can reach the bench, there's a rustle of fabric somewhere to her left. Blearily, she turns her head, searching for the source-

Oh. Oh, _Elbereth._

Surprise quickly replaces tiredness. Surprise, and if she's being honest with herself, awe. The tattoos themselves are impressive, of course, but they're not what's holding her attention. Broad shoulders only partially hidden away by long, blonde-slightly damp? How odd-hair, the long, lean line of his back, the impressive muscles there…

She should look away, continue on to her bench, but after the day she's had, Lothiriel decides she deserves some kind of reward. The thought makes her snort a laugh before she can stop herself and her hands fly up to her mouth in horror-oh, _please_ , let him not have heard-

The Valar must not be listening to her prayers today, for Eomer turns, brows furrowed in confusion, only to abruptly stop when he meets her gaze. They stare at each other, time feeling strangely still. Then he begins to fumble with his tunic, attempting to pull it on over his head while one sleeve is still twisted. The result is one frowning King of Rohan, hopelessly tangled in his shirt.

Lothiriel cannot help it: she laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs, tears leaking from her eyes, until she is not laughing any longer. The tears are no longer ones of amusement, but exhaustion and homesickness and worry, oh, so much worry. She knows she must look a _fright_ , but she cannot stop, cannot even pause long enough to draw breath.

Dimly, she's aware of him calling her name. The rush of embarrassment _that_ brings only serves to make her cry harder, bringing her hands up to cover her face as her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs.

* * *

When Eomer had turned to see Lothiriel staring at him, his first thought had been that he was going to _murder_ his sister.

The instant she bursts into tears, though, he knows Eowyn has not sent her. Likely, Eowyn would not have let Lothiriel out of her sight if she had known how distressed she was. It would be alarming, the intensity of her sobs, if he hadn't seen this sort of thing before. Exhaustion is a cruel mistress, especially when paired with hunger. Even the most season rider would be helpless in the face of such a combination.

While he hadn't really enjoyed being laughed at-his tunic being twisted surely wasn't _that_ humorous-he would prefer it to this: watching her cry as if her heart is breaking, scarcely muffling the sound behind her hands.

"Lothiriel?" He asks, lowly, not wanting to startle her. It hadn't been quiet enough; if anything, the sound of her name only serves to make her cry harder.

Eomer isn't conscious of stepping closer until there is only a hand's span between them. Lothiriel hasn't noticed at all, her eyes still hidden behind her hands. So he does what he would do for Eowyn, for Wilfled, even for Bledgifu: he takes her into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed gently to her lower back.

At first, she doesn't acknowledge him at all, likely still crying too hard to be aware that she's being held. Slowly, she leans more heavily against him, her arms slipping around him to allow her hands to fist in his tunic.

This is not the time to notice how well she fits in his arms, how easy it is to rest his cheek on top of her head, to stroke a hand through her long, dark hair. But he does.

"Sire?" A soft voice calls. It's one of the stable boys, cautiously peering around the corner. Keeping one hand gently running through her hair, he waves the boy off with the other, giving him a glare fierce enough to hopefully keep him from running his mouth.

Gradually, Lothiriel's sobs ebb, dwindle down into small sniffles muffled into his chest. Much as he hates to see her so upset-he will find out why, of that there is no doubt-it is no small pleasure to have her this close, in the way he'd tried not to think of during the long stretches of silence on the journey back from the West-mark.

She mumbles something intelligible, keeping her face resolutely hidden against the front of his tunic.

"What was that, _swete_?" He asks, the endearment falling from his tongue unbidden.

Mercifully, she's too flustered to have heard it, or if she did, chooses not to acknowledge it, saying in a very soft voice, "I am sorry, I did not mean to wail all over you like some...some... _child_ -"

Frowning, he crooks a gentle finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes are red, her face wet with tears, and he can see the exhaustion there, mingled with sorrow. Still, so lovely. "You are not a child," Eomer says, in as gentle voice he can manage, "and there are very few things you could do to lessen my regard for you. Crying is certainly not one of them."

She huffs a watery laugh at that, a smile taking some of the sorrow from her face. "So I am not a Gondorian trinket, then?"

It's his turn to chuckle, thinking of their disastrous first meeting. "Much too strong to be a trinket."

Lothiriel's smile fades, and she leans her head back against his chest. "I do not feel so strong, now."

His hand has a mind of its own, still stroking through her hair in slow, soothing motions. "What happened?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. He feels, rather than hears, her sigh. "Everything. It has been a long, strange day, and then Eothred…"

 _Of course Eothred has something to do with this_ , Eomer thinks, ungenerously. "Bema, I can only imagine what he's said-"

"No, it wasn't...nothing crude, I swear it, but he explained that about the...the _cumendre_ -"

"Ah," Eomer says. Yes, he can see how the thought of stepping in to serve as Eothain and Wilfled's daughter's second parent would be overwhelming, especially when one considers that her time in Rohan is limited, that she is a princess of Gondor, hardly able to abandon her family and the numerous other responsibilities that await her there. Eothred had not been wrong; a woman's _mǣg_ was usually the natural choice for the role of _cumendre_ , but he suspects Wilfled will make an exception here. But then again, perhaps not. It was very strange that Lisswyn had not been there for her sister-in-law…

"Lothiriel, where was Lisswyn? By all rights, she should have been with Wilfled today."

Were he not holding her, Eomer thinks he might have missed her reaction, but as it is, he feels her sudden flinch. Suspicion flares and he's tempted to tip her chin upward again, to better see her face. She has no talent for lying, and even if she tried, her usual blushes would give her away.

"Lothiriel-"

"I am certain she merely lost track of time," she says in a rush, determinedly avoiding his eyes. "I think she may have been showing Erchirion different parts of the city. Merthwyn did give her permission to take the afternoon off from her duties, and the babe came so suddenly-"

"And she could not be found in time?" He asks.

Lothiriel bites her lip, finally lifting her gaze to his. The sudden wave of desire he feels is completely ill-timed, but she is so _close_ , so warm and trusting in his arms-

"Yes," she says, startling him out of his train of thought, "yes, exactly that."

Eomer is not certain he believes her, but she has been through enough today without him badgering her for a more concrete answer about Lisswyn. "I do not think that is all that caused you such distress."

The tears have begun afresh, and Bema, the sight makes his heart _ache_. Makes him want to offer something, _anything_ to make her smile, to take away the conflict she's so obviously grappling with.

"I...I was not there for Alycia. My sister-in-law had my mother, of course, but in Gondor, unwed maidens are forbidden from the birthing chamber. And after watching Lisswyn...I imagined Aly, and how afraid she must have been, how much pain she experienced, and I did nothing. I did not even _think_ to offer-"

"You said yourself that maidens are not allowed in the birthing chamber-"

"And I have never seen my niece!" She blurts suddenly, clearly having not heard him, "Nemiriel is nearly 6 months old and I could not tell you more than a handful of things about her-I could not even pick her out of a crowd! Alphros must be so tall now, so grown, and it'll be a miracle if Amrothos hasn't wrecked half of the fleet since he's been made captain-"

Ah. Homesickness and guilt color every word. Eomer knows the sensation well enough. It has been his bedfellow in the recent months, made worse by his uncle's strange illness, Eowyn's brittle strength, Wormtongue's foul presence. Theodred's death had begun it; what was Edoras without his cousin and closest friend? Why had he not been by his side, at the Fords? But there is no changing it, no way to undo the past. Eomer has spent too much time already concerning himself with the 'what if's' rather than the 'what are's'. He would not have her do the same.

"Lothiriel, do you wish to return to Dol Amroth?" He asks.

That startles her out of her misery and she blinks, leaning her head back to meet his eyes. "Well-yes, but not _now_. I...I like Edoras, of course, and my lessons with Duilin, the friends I have made here, Eowyn, you…" Her cheeks pink, slightly. "I made a promise to stay until after Yule, to help Eowyn. I cannot-I _will_ not leave until I have fulfilled it."

"Do you think your parents or your brothers begrudge you for that promise?"

"Of course not," she says, quickly. "They know how dear Eowyn is to me, that there was no one else-" Lothiriel stops, biting her lip again. _Bema_ , but she needed to stop doing that. "I have been very foolish, haven't I?"

"Not foolish," he promises, "merely tired and overwrought. As anyone would be."

"Still," she sighs, pressing her cheek back against his chest. "I did not mean to throw all of this at you, Eomer, I know you must be tired as well-"

He is, of course he is, but that matters so little just now, with her so close. "Not so tired that I would abandon a lady in distress."

A tiny smile curves her lips upwards. "A true hero."

He snorts. "Hardly."

Now it is Lothiriel's turn to frown at him. "I do not say it lightly, Eomer. The peace you have achieved with the Dunlendings...the kindness you have showed me-"

"You have earned every kindness, Lothiriel. Do not make me out to be some...champion. I am just a man, with flaws and fears like the rest."

"But a good man," she insists, chin jutting up in stubbornness- _Vana_ , even that is endearing-"Better than you know, even if you are insufferable, on occasion."

That startles him into a laugh. " _Byrnihtu cwén_."

"Not so prickly, surely," she counters, smiling, "perhaps a little damp…"

Eomer frowns, just slightly, reaching up on impulse to wipe the last few tears from her face. Lothiriel stares at him, mouth slightly parted in surprise. Her skin is soft, nearly unbearably so, and warm, and suddenly he wants to kiss her so badly he aches with it. Their faces are only inches apart...all it would take is him bending, or her stretching up on the tips of her toes, small thing that she is-

"Bema, but you are a hard man to find, Eomer-" Eothred's voice causes them both to jump. Lothiriel steps back, face flushed once more, and Eomer thinks a litany of very foul words before turning to face his marshal.

"Yes, Eothred?"

Eothred's eyes flick from him, to Lothiriel, and back again. The wide grin that blooms on his face is one of the most unsettling things Eomer has ever seen, and he has battled Orcs and Wargs and Uruk-hai. "Am I interrupting, sire?"

"Eothred-" He starts to growl, but Lothiriel speaks over him in a rush.

"It has been a long day, and Eowyn will be expecting me-"

"And the council is expecting you, Eomer King," Eothred says, still grinning. "Shall we escort the lady back to the hall?"

There is very little else he can do besides nod, forcing down a scowl when Lothiriel chooses to take Eothred's arm over his. Later, he will recognize Eothed's interruption for the blessing it had been-they were both tired, and in the stables of all places-but for now it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to cause his marshal bodily harm when Eothred shoots him a far from subtle wink over his shoulder.

* * *

Lothiriel scarcely remembers the walk back to the hall, much less the food and drink Merthwyn had all but shoved at her, tutting over her bedraggled and worn appearance. Her head is a-whirl with her earlier worries, the overwhelming tiredness she feels, the lingering sensation of Eomer's hand stroking her hair…

Oh, Elbereth, the way he'd looked at her. The way she'd looked at _him_!

Blessedly, Eowyn writes off her silence as a symptom of weariness instead of daydreaming, and sends her off to bed the minute she's finished her food.

"We will talk in the morning, _min dr_ ú _t_ ," she says, giving Lothiriel's hand a squeeze. "Get some rest."

And she has every intention to, making the way towards her room in a daze-by the Valar, how was she supposed to think of anything else now? Anything other than the warmth of his arms, the gentleness with which he'd held her, listened to her fears, her guilt-

"Lothiriel?"

Her head snaps up in surprise. Erchirion is standing beside her door, Lisswyn beside him.

"Is it true?" Lisswyn asks in a rush. "Wilfled-the babe-"

"You have a niece," Lothiriel sighs, feeling utterly ancient. "And your sister-in-law lives."

"Oh, thank Vana," Lisswyn cries, her hand obviously held tight in Erchirion's. "Is she well? Who was-"

"I am too tired to have this discussion now," Lothiriel interrupts. "Lisswyn, if your uncle asks, you have been ill for two days and the midwives would not let you in to tend to Wilfled. I do not know how long that excuse will hold, but it is what Cwenhild has told him."

Lisswyn pales, nodding once before hurrying past her towards the hall's exit.

Erchirion studies her for a moment, frowning. "You do not look well, sister-have you been crying?"

"Erchirion," she says, "please. Not now."

"We have always had honesty between us-"

"Oh, and we shall," she cuts in, a touch sharper than she means to, "but not this night."

His mouth tightens in a way that's utterly reminiscent of Elphir, and the sight almost makes her smile, despite everything. "In the morning, then."

"Good night, brother," she murmurs, side-stepping him and shutting the door before he can get another word in.

When she sleeps, she dreams of dappled horses and dark eyes, and thinks of Erchirion and Lisswyn not at all.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Y'all, I can honestly tell you I've been waiting to write this chapter since I started this story. That being said, I just want to break down a couple of things I've introduced before getting too wrapped up in our favorite pair finally making moves-sort of.

So as mentioned in the previous chapter, the tradition of the _mǣg_ is my own invention, as is the practice of _cumendre_. Obviously the term 'godmother' is a fairly Christian idea, but it just made sense for Rohirric culture to have something in mind in case a mother dies in childbirth. Like many Anglo-Saxon cultures, having a female and male influence in a child's life is considered very important, and the _mǣg_ - _to-cumendre_ link seemed too right to flow into to ignore it. Obviously the most logical choice for any child's _cumendre_ would be a close family member or a friend-I myself am godmother to my favorite cousin's oldest son-and so I've introduced that tradition into Rohan here.

Vana is, as stated, the Queen of Flowers and Bema's-Orome, as he's known in _the_ _Silmarillion-_ wife. Given the importance of Bema in Rohirric culture, it only makes sense that his wife would have an equal status. As she's the goddess-or Tolkien equivalent-of youth, flowers, and growing things, she's the natural choice for prayer when it comes to childbirth (and marriage too, which we'll touch on in later chapters). Conversely, in Gondor, where the relationship with Elvish culture is much more long-standing/intertwined, it makes sense that childbirth prayers there would be dedicated to Varda-or Elbereth, as she's often called both in this story and in the novels. (And yes, there will be significant interest in the fact that Lothiriel's name means 'flower-garlanded maiden'.)

On a more character related note: Just _where_ Lisswyn and Erchirion have been all day will be revealed in the next chapter, I promise. As to the long-awaited reunion between our favorite duo: I'll leave it up to y'all to tell me how I carried it off. (May or may not be one of my favorite things I've ever written, but you know. Author's bias.)

 **Terms:**

 _mǣg:_ sister-helper

 _cumendre:_ godmother

 _foranlencten:_ early spring festival

 _gedwæsmenn:_ fools

 _esol:_ asshole

 _swete:_ sweetheart


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! I have to apologize again for the delay: this chapter was giving me FITS as I tried to fit everything I wanted in it, plotwise, so it took a little longer than usual. But I hope y'all think it's worth the wait!

Thank you again to all of you sweet reviewers, followers, and favorites: it makes sharing this story with y'all an absolute delight.

Fair warning: I fully expect some of you to be calling for my head due to the end of this chapter, but I promise the conflict that happens (though I won't say with who) is necessary on a number of fronts, and is not there just for drama's sake.

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

* * *

Lothiriel has scarcely managed to pull herself out of bed-she's slept much later than is her wont, but given the events of the day before it's only to be expected-when there is a knock on the door. Expecting one of the usual serving girls who usually helps her with her dress, or even Eowyn coming to check on her, she opens the door with a smile.

Instead, it's Lisswyn's soft, serious face that greets her, wearing an expression Lothiriel can only describe as resigned.

"May we come in?"

Darwyn is there, too, and waves happily at her from her perch on Lisswyn's hip.

"Of course," Lothiriel says, though she feels far too fuzzy-headed from sleep to truly handle the conversation they're about to have. She busies herself with tying her dressing gown closed and pouring water into two cups as Lisswyn settles her toddler on the rug nearest the hearth. They sit, Lisswyn accepting the mug and taking a sip. The only sound for a few minutes is Darwyn's happy babbling.

"Bema knows what you must think of me," Lisswyn says, suddenly. "I could not have picked a worse time to be so...irresponsible-"

"You could not have known the babe would come so suddenly," Lothiriel interjects, "and confused though I may be by your sudden...flightiness, I do not think any less of you than I did a week ago."

That, at least, is true. It is not as if Lisswyn is a married woman, or someone who would seek to trap Erchirion with a child, or even one of the many Minas Tirithian ladies with their sights set on becoming royalty regardless whether they had any affection for the man who would make them so. And Lisswyn is kind and witty, if a little shy, as well as a good mother and sister. Dalliance with Erchirion aside, she has done nothing to lower herself in Lothiriel's opinion. She just cannot fathom why the two of them would choose to be so...rash, so obvious, especially on the day the eored was due home.

She says as much, watching as Lisswyn sighs. "Have you ever been in love, Lothiriel?"

Lothiriel forces herself not to flush at the question. "No," she says, but thinks _not yet_.

Lisswyn smiles, slightly. "I had not been either, before now."

Lothiriel's eyebrows raise. Everything she has learned about Rohirric culture thus far tells her that marriages here, much like in Dol Amroth, are usually ones of love. And Darwyn's existence as well as the winding red wedding mark on her friend's upper right says very obviously that Lisswyn has been married before.

"I do not understand," she says.

"I can see that you do not," Lisswyn says, expression still soft. "Did you know that I am older than Eothain, Lothiriel?"

She did not. From their interactions, how gentle Eothain has always been with her, she had supposed him to be older. Their relationship was not wholly dissimilar from her own with Erchirion, after all.

"I am five years his senior," she continues on. "And when he wed Wilfled eight years ago, at just twenty, my family began to worry about me. My father had died in a battle with Dunlendings three years before, and my mother had not been in the best health since then. My uncle had just been made Second Marshal and spent much of his time in the Westmark. So if something were to happen to her, I would either be alone or live with my newly-wed little brother." At this, her nose wrinkles. "You have seen the pair of them together, now, with two children and eight years of marriage under their belts. Imagine how they were in the blush of love."

Lothiriel cannot help but wince. Wilfled and Eothain were known the city over for their...obvious affection for each other. "I dare not."

Lisswyn laughs. "Exactly. And there was a childhood friend of mine-Wídfara-who my brother had always teased me about. I had never felt anything more than friendly affection for him, but he was a good man, a kind man, and I did not want to worry my mother any longer."

"So you married him," Lothiriel surmises. "Oh, Lisswyn."

"Yes," she murmurs. "He knew the truth, of course. I would not lie to him and he hoped I would come to feel what he did in time. And I did love him, but...not in the way he wanted. I expect I will never not feel guilty about that."

Lothiriel is not sure who she feels worse for: tenderhearted Lisswyn, who could not give her husband the love he craved, or poor Wídfara, for having only two thirds of what he wanted in a marriage.

"I had never experienced the passion that happened so easily for Eothain and Wilfled, for so many others. But now...now I know what it was that I denied Wídfara, what I denied myself. And I feel both wretched, for having hurt my poor husband, but also fortunate that I did, for it gave us Darwyn and that I will never regret."

"No, you should never regret that," Lothiriel agrees, turning her head to look at the toddler playing on the rug, blissfully unaware of what was being discussed. "But Lisswyn, this has been so sudden and I fear-"

Lothiriel cannot bring herself to say the truth: that there is such a low possibility of this romance to ending in happiness. For all that Erchirion was a second son, he was still a Prince of Dol Amroth. Naneth and Ada would adore Lisswyn-and be utterly charmed by Darwyn-but no matter how much they approved of her, how much Amrothos would tease about their even-keel brother being decidedly _not_ for once...they would not find welcome anywhere outside of Dol Amroth. Perhaps not even there. The best they could hope for would be to go to Pelargir, to Naneth's brothers, but that would take them far from everyone they know, from both of their kin. And Naneth's brothers are border-lords, ever-wary and prepared for conflict. That sort of atmosphere would not suit her gentle brother at all, let alone soft-spoken Lisswyn.

And for all of Eothain's status as captain and Eothred's role as Second Marshal, that did not equate to royalty, in Rohan. Nobility, perhaps, but it would be a stretch, considering what Lothiriel has learned about the actual noble families in the country. Lisswyn would be seen as a power-hungry peasant, Darwyn would somehow be made into Erchirion's bastard child regardless of all evidence to the contrary, and Erchirion himself would be reduced to a cautionary tale, a warning against the inner-mingling between the various layers of Gondorian society.

"I know how dearly you love your brother, Lothiriel, and you would not see him hurt," Lisswyn says, gently, clearly misunderstanding her, "and I know how sudden it must seem...but this is no game to me. Nor to him."

 _I know that_ , Lothiriel thinks, _and that makes this even worse._

Suddenly, she is angry-oh, not with Lisswyn, never Lisswyn, who deserves this sort of happiness in spades-but with Erchirion. Lisswyn does not know Minas Tirith's court, does not know Gondor's traditions, but her brother _does_. By the Valar, he knows better than most! He must know what obstacles they would face, how alone Lisswyn would feel in Minas Tirith's court, and yet still, he has persisted!

 _Is that what she will truly face,_ a voice that sounds irritatingly like Naneth whispers, _or what you have?_

"Lothiriel?" Lisswyn asks, startling her out of her thoughts. "Are you well?"

"Yes," she says, "yes, of course. But Lisswyn...what will you tell Eothain? Or Eothred? Or, Elberth, Wilfled!"

Lisswyn's cheeks pink a little and she ducks her head. "Wilfled knows the truth. I owed her that much. And I will tell Eothain and my uncle in time, after-" She stops herself, blush deepening, but Lothiriel can hear the unspoken statement clearly: _after Erchirion has asked for my hand_.

"But they will want to know where you have been. And I confess, so do I," Lothiriel says, both wanting to know and wishing she could keep her blissful ignorance. "I have tried to think of what could have kept you absent the entire day-"

Lisswyn's blush only increases and Lothiriel realizes the why, if not the where, of their absence.

"There is a meadow not an hour's ride from Edoras," murmurs Lisswyn, avoiding her eyes, "and goldenrod blooms there during this time of the year. It's believed if you take your loved one there, Vana will bless you with seven years of health and happiness."

Judging by her friend's still red cheeks, Lothiriel can guess that they did not while the day away picking flowers. "I see." She stands, abruptly, wanting _anything_ besides continuing this conversation. "I am sorry, Lisswyn, but I really must get dressed-Duilin is surely expecting me, or Eowyn-"

"I know this is not an easy discussion to have about one's brother," Lisswyn interrupts, smiling softly, "but I must thank you for letting me explain."

She leaves, gracefully, quietly, with a waving Darwyn back on her hip.

Lothiriel sits with her head in her hands for a few long moments, wishing it had been Amrothos who had come with her to Rohan, after all.

* * *

The buzz of his councilors' voices is a dull hum in the background. Eomer knows he should be paying more attention-they had relented on meeting the night before, given the sudden arrival of Eothain's daughter and his obvious weariness-but it as if there is cotton in his ears, making it difficult to concentrate.

He is still tired from the journey. One night's rest in his admittedly much more comfortable bed had not been enough to truly restore him. Especially when one considered he had not truly rested at all-how could he have, with his thoughts occupied as they were? _Bema_ , how right she'd felt in his arms. How close he'd been to kissing her. If not for Eothred's interruption, he likely would have, and would have spared himself the torment of remembering the sensation of the soft skin of her face under his hands without the accompanying knowledge of what her mouth would taste like, if she would sigh, or blush in her usual endearing way-

"Sire?"

Baldred's voice jerks him rather unpleasantly from his thoughts and he blinks, forcing himself to focus on his councilor. "Yes, Baldred?"

"We were remarking on King Elessar's letter," he says, clearly repeating himself. "He has reported Dunlending ambassadors have reached his court, to pledge their tribes as Gondor's allies."

Just as Dera and Madoc had reported, and Eomer is glad of it, to know that they had not been lying. "Gondor's allies are ours as well. If Aragorn accepts their terms, so will the Riddermark."

"Do you think that wise, sire?" Dernhelm asks. "I know that the High King is a friend of yours, but if the Dunlendings become more loyal to Gondor and still seek to reclaim parts of the Mark as their own-"

A round of grumbles break out of this-some clearly in agreeance, other in disapproval-and Eomer can only frown, irritated with the older man. "Do you mean to imply that the man who saved my sister's life, who helped lead our people to victory in Helm's Deep, a man I consider a brother, would encourage rebellion and violence against our country? Against our people? Against me?"

"Gondorians have been...changeable in the past," Dernhelm continues on, clearly ignoring the loud "for shame" Erkenbrand mutters. "Who is to say they will not be so again?"

"I think the fact that Lady Eowyn is marrying the Steward of Minas Tirith might make them more inclined to keep stable relations with the House of Eorl," Eothred chimes in, looking far too relaxed for the level of tension in the room. "And the fact that Lord Denethor was, by all accounts, a miserly old bastard dealing with the constant threat of Mordor on his back doorstep. I think everyone here who has met the Lord Aragorn can safely say he is not the same sort of man."

There are more murmurs of agreement; Aragorn had done much to endear himself to the Rohirrim in his time here, both as a Ranger from the North and later as High King.

"And besides," Eothred drawls, turning a grin in Eomer's direction, "how can you possibly think poorly of any Gondorian, if Princess Lothiriel is the standard of what passes for good and fair in their country?"

Eomer grits his teeth as a number of councilors laugh. Second Marshal or not, Eothred was walking-no, trouncing-upon the thin line of his patience.

"Oh, aye, she is that," Erkenbrand chuckles, "especially when one considers how willingly she stepped up to serve as your niece's _mǣg_ , Eothred."

"I will admit to being a bit biased," Eothred admits, "not as much as some, of course, but it's hard not to like the lass, true and sweet as she is."

"As...admirable as the princess may be," Dernhelm interjects, "I still think it would be in the Mark's best interest to insist that we be placed on equal terms with Gondor when it comes to negotiating peace with the Dunlendings."

"Is that not what allies are?" Erkenbrand counters. " _Bema_ , Dernhelm, the people of Gondor know how much they owe the Rohirrim!"

Privately, Eomer agrees with him, but there are a number of councilors massing behind Dernhelm, all wearing looks of ill-content. Aragorn would understand this caveat, unnecessary as it is, and there are enough things for the council to worry about without dealing with infighting.

"Peace, Dernhelm, Erkenbrand," he says. "I will write to Aragorn with our stipulations. He wants peace as much we do. Ensuring the Dunlendings participation in that peace is not such a great boon to ask."

 _Not like all of the extra grain we have had to beg for, nor the hands we will need to plant it come spring-_

" _Food, hands, timber; what is sharing such things amongst friends?"_ Lothiriel's voice floats back to him, the memory of her almost outraged face making the corners of his mouth twitch, despite his lingering irritation. She was right, of course. His pride is hardly worth more than food that will keep his people alive.

"Thank you, Eomer King," Dernhelm says. "And now onto our second item of the day…"

* * *

Lothiriel is so distracted by the rambunctious game a group of stable boys is playing in the city's square that she doesn't hear the heavy tread of boots behind her. As such, she shrieks in surprise when she's abruptly lifted into the air from behind, earning herself a sudden spin for her trouble.

"I've found you at last!"

"Eothain, put me down!" She protests, struggling weakly in his grasp. The surrounding market-goers chuckle at her and she can feel her face start to heat in a blush. "I am not a doll!"

He sets her down, grinning wildly when she turns to give him a magnificent scowl. "No you are not, _glómmung cwén_. You are a wonder! A miracle sent from Vana herself-"

"You are _ridiculous_ ," Lothiriel hisses, reaching up to give his ear a sharp tug. "And you are going to make me late to Master Duilin's-"

"I already talked it out with the old sourpuss," he interrupts, sliding an arm around her shoulders and all but forcing her down the path leading towards his house, "and he agreed to delay your lesson for an hour. There's something Wilfled and I would very much like to discuss with you."

The sheer level of panic that suddenly floods her veins is disarming. Oh, Valar, what will she say if he asks about Lisswyn and Erchirion? Wilfled knows the truth-or at least part of it-but Eothain does not, cannot-

But Eothain is too relaxed, too cheerful, to be upset with her, or anyone else. This must be a matter of a different sort.

Wilfled looks much less weary, now, as she sits on her bed, new babe in her arms and Eofor beside her.

"You ran off before I could thank you, yesterday," She scolds, teasingly. "So I had to send my errant husband to find you."

"And once again, what my lady requests, I grant," Eothain chuckles, bending to press a kiss to Wilfled's hair.

Eofor makes a gagging sound, earning a laugh from Lothiriel and a gentle cuff from Eothain.

"How do you feel about being a brother, Eofor?" Lothiriel asks when neither of her friends begin to explain why she'd been brought here in such urgency.

"S'alright," the boy sniffs, "she hasn't cried too much yet, like my friends said she would. But she's just so _small_!"

"She is, that," Lothiriel agrees, reaching out to gently touch the tiny tuft of red-gold hair on the baby's head. "But she will grow, in time. And then you can do all of the fun things that brothers and sisters do together."

There's a knock at the door that Eothain rises to answer, leaving Lothiriel with Eofor's wide-eyed amazement and Wilfled's palpable amusement.

"Like what?"

"Hm," Lothiriel says, tapping her chin in mock contemplation. "I imagine you'd like to help her learn how to ride. My brothers helped me, when I was small."

"Oh, yes! She'll be able to do that?"

"Not for a few years, my son," answers Wilfled, smiling slightly. "But eventually, yes."

Eofor peers down at his sister with new interest. "That's alright. She has to be bigger so it's safe for her to ride, right?"

"Yes," Lothiriel agrees. "See? You're already doing wonderfully as a brother, to think of that."

Eofor beams. "And I can help her learn about the harvest! Oh, and queek!"

"Be careful what you teach her, Eofor," comes a familiar voice, "for one day she may best you at all of it. Little sisters have an annoying habit of doing that."

Lothiriel forces herself to turn her head very, very slowly towards the doorway. Eothain and Eomer lean against it-which should be an impossible feat, given the width of both of their shoulders and the narrowness of the doorframe-both grinning at her. But where Eothain's smile is comforting, friendly, Eomer's is...something else. Something that makes her think of the strength of his arms, the soothing-yet-not pull of his hand through her hair, the dark depths of his eyes so close to her own-

"It is not our fault we are simply more talented than our older brothers," she somehow finds herself saying, feeling her cheeks flush once more when Eomer laughs, Eothain following not far behind.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Wilfled's eyes flicking back and forth between her and Eomer. Schooling her face into a less open expression, she meets Wilfled's knowing look with an innocent blink. "But I do not think we were called here for a discussion of siblings."

At least, she hopes not.

"Aye, you're right," Eothain agrees. "There's something we'd like to ask you. Both of you."

"Eothred mentioned he might have startled you yesterday," Wilfled chimes in, "but he was not wrong in assuming we would like you to be our daughter's _cumendre,_ Lothiriel."

The breath leaves her in a rush. "I am flattered," she manages to say, "but Wilfled, Eothain, surely Lisswyn is the right choice for this? She is family, after all, and she will be here, in Rohan-"

"Lisswyn is Eofor's _cumendre_ already," says Wilfled, looking serene in a way that Lothiriel envies. "She does not begrudge you this, after yesterday. And," here a spark of mischief enters her expression, "I fear I am being wholly selfish in hoping that by giving you such a role in my daughter's life, you will find reason to visit Edoras as often as you can."

Lothiriel feels tears prick behind her eyes and she has to look away from Wilfled's fond expression, away from Eothain's near-face-splitting smile, down at the little life they have created. How can she refuse them? Refuse this dear little babe, not yet a day old, and already so loved, so precious?

"Well, if I must," she says, mopping at her eyes and resolutely **not** thinking of what her brothers will say upon hearing she's acquired a Rohirric godchild.

"Good, that's settled then," Eothain chirps. He turns then, clapping a hand to Eomer's shoulder. "And you'll be her _cumpæder,_ then, Eomer?"

The look of shock on Eomer's face is nearly comical. "Eothain, you cannot-"

"Eomer, it is only fair," interrupts Wilfled, who looks worryingly amused. "You are Eothain's oldest friend, and given the fact that Lothiriel will be returning to Gondor, my daughter will need at least one godparent who will always be nearby."

"But-"

"Come now," interrupts Eothain, "should anything happen to me, it's only right that I should want the fiercest protector possible for my daughter. And I can think of no one more stubborn about protecting those whom he loves than you, my friend."

"This is too high an honor-"

"Yes, it is," Wilfled says simply, "and that is why it must be you."

The babe, resting quietly in her mother's arms up until now, suddenly gives a mighty wail, startling them all.

"See, Eomer?" Eothain teases. "The thought of your refusal upsets her."

Wilfled croons at her daughter, rocking her gently until she's quieted again. Lothiriel smiles at the picture they make, despite the baby's still pinked face. "You cannot refuse her choice, or Wilfled and Eothain will never know peace." Her eyes flick up to Eomer's, but instead of a smile or an amused look, he looks nearly stricken. He composes himself before Eothain glances his way, but Lothiriel has seen his expression, and worries.

"So, it is settled, then," Eothain says, patting Eomer's shoulder again before walking over to drop a kiss to Lothiriel's forehead. "I cannot think of a luckier child than our Blodwyn."

"Oh, what a lovely name!" Lothiriel says. "I had meant to ask before…" Her brow furrows as the name processes. Children in Rohan are typically named in a similar pattern as their parents: Theoden to Theodred, Eomund to Eomer, Theodwyn to Eowyn. Blodwyn follows neither Eothain nor Wilfled's name. "Why Blodwyn?"

Wilfled and Eothain share a look-by the Valar, the intimacy there, such understanding-before both turning towards her. "It is meant to be a special thanks to Vana, for her health. And to you."

"Me?"

"Blodwyn means white flower," Wilfled explains. "It is meant to honor the goddess, of course, but I must admit it will always make me think of a certain flower-garlanded maiden as well."

Lothiriel can only stare at them in open mouthed shock. "Wilfled, that is...it is too much!"

"Eowyn already considers you kin," the other woman insists, "is it so surprising that we do, too?"

"I-no, it is only-"

"Blodwyn she'll stay, Lothiriel," Eothain says, giving her nose a tweak. "And I'll remind you that you _did_ say I was every bit as irritating as any of your older brothers."

"You are far worse," Lothiriel sniffs, trying and failing to keep the wobble out of her voice. "I cannot tell the two of you what this means."

Wilfled smiles, reaching over to squeeze her hand briefly. " _Bewáest ac bist gebewiten_. I am afraid you're quite stuck with us now, _glómmung cwén_."

"A happier fate I cannot imagine," she says, bending to press a kiss to her goddaughter's forehead. Blodwyn gives a tiny snuffle and Wilfled beams.

"To Duilin's shop with you now, Mistress Healer," Eothain orders, offering a hand to help pull her from her chair. "I would escort you myself, had I not been forbidden from leaving my ladies unattended."

"As if you need to be told to do such a thing," Eomer grumbles. "I doubt wild Wargs could pull you away."

"Which is why I intrust the protection of my beloved daughter's _cumendre_ to you, Eomer King," says Eothain, pressing Lothiriel's hand into the crook of Eomer's elbow. "One never knows how dangerous Edoras's streets have become in our absence."

Wilfled scarcely muffles her laughter and Lothiriel knows her face has flushed once more, but Eomer merely frowns at his captain before turning his face towards hers. "Do you think you need an escort, Lothiriel?"

"Need? No," she says, quietly enough that perhaps Eothain and Wilfled will not overhear. "But I think I would like one, all the same."

Something has upset him, and she intends to find out what. It is only a small bonus that doing so will let her keep her arm looped through his.

Eomer's expression softens, slightly, and he nods. "I am yours to command, then, my lady."

Eothain's near blinding smile is visible out of the corner of Lothiriel's eye-he had planned this, of that she is sure-but she ignores it, all but tugging Eomer out of the house and into the bright almost-winter sunshine.

* * *

Eomer is grateful that Lothiriel does not immediately press him for the reason behind his sudden ill-temper. He is not sure how he would explain it to Eothain and Wilfled, let alone her, of how little deserving he feels of their trust. Bema, he had not even been able to protect Eowyn from thrice-damned Wormtongue! Or Theodred, from Saurman's Orcs, or Uncle from the Wizard's machinations-and now they would entrust him with their infant daughter? More precious to them than anyone or anything, save Eofor?

"You do not have to tell me," Lothiriel say quietly, fingers pressing gently against the bend of his elbow, "but something has upset you, Eomer. And I do not think that was Eothain and Wilfled's intention."

No, it certainly hadn't been. To be named a child's _cumpæder_ was no small thing. It was a vow to protect, to love the child as one's own, should anything befall their parents. It was usually given to a brother or a cousin. Someone the child would know and feel comfortable with, someone proven time and time again as capable of caring for them, keeping them from harm-it is an honor, however undeserved, that Eothain and Wilfled think him an apt choice.

"Eomer?" comes Lothiriel's voice again. "You helped me last night, when you need not have. Please let me return the favor."

The lane they're currently standing in is a far cry from the privacy of Niprehdil's stall, but Eomer finds himself stopping all the same, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Their faith in my ability to protect Blodwyn is misplaced. They should have chosen some other _cumpæder_ for her. One who is better deserving of their trust."

There is a pause. Eomer steels himself for Lothiriel to sympathize, as he had the night before for her, but instead she says, "You cannot be serious."

Eomer blinks, meeting her gaze. "Utterly."

"Have you hit your head in the hours it's been since I've seen you last? Been kicked by Firefoot?"

"Lothiriel-"

She drops his arm, stepping closer to poke him rather violently in the chest. "Because if you expect me to stand here and let you give this...baseless critique of yourself, you truly must have suffered some sort of head wound recently-"

" _Baseless_ -you do not know my failings, Lothiriel-"

"Who have you failed to protect? Your people? _My_ people? The Dunlendings who would have frozen to death in the hills, if not for you?" Her voice has risen enough to attract a few curious looks and he frowns, tugging her around the corner of the nearest house.

"Eowyn, my uncle, _Theodred_ -" He hisses, voice catching on the last name. Of all of those he has failed, the fact that he had been unable to protect those closest to him-his only living kin-sticks like sawdust in his throat.

Lothiriel's expression shifts. "Oh, you _stupid_ man."

He bristles at that-and to think he had been so gentle with her fears, her doubts!

But then she's reaching up, cradling his face between her small, soft hands, and all irritation is lost, whisked away like smoke on the wind. "Eowyn is _fine_ , Eomer. Happy. Betrothed. Wormtongue cannot haunt her footsteps any longer. And your uncle's death...Theodred's death...they were _not_ of your making. You love them, and you miss them, but you certainly did not fail them."

He can only stare at her. Bema, she is even more beautiful now than she had been the night before, here, now, in the afternoon sunlight and without tears in her eyes. Her face is still flushed, though, and continues to pink the longer he stares down at her.

Recovering himself, he reaches up to cover one of her hands with his own. "You see me as better than I am."

"I see you exactly as you have shown yourself to be," she insists, a small smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.

Eomer cannot help himself; he closes his eyes and pulls her hand over to his mouth to press a kiss to its palm. He hears, rather than sees, her sudden intake of breath.

"Eomer…" Her voice is as soft as he's ever heard it, breathless in a way that will likely keep him awake for hours later.

He's just managed to open his eyes and catch a glimpse of her expression-wide-eyed, blushing, and with a smile so soft his heart lurches-when he sees a sudden movement of something over her shoulder. No, not something. Some _one_.

"I so look forward to the explanation behind this," Erchirion says.

Lothiriel flinches, her head turning sharply to meet her brother's gaze. "Erchirion-"

"We need to speak, Lothiriel," he interrupts. "About many things, it would seem."

"Erchirion," Eomer starts, only to receive a sharp look.

"I know you to be an honorable man, a brave warrior, and a rather over-protective brother yourself," the older man says, "so I will assume that I saw an innocent expression of admiration for my sister, and nothing more."

"As if you have any room to lecture me on innocent expressions of admiration," Lothiriel hisses. Eomer looks towards her, startled at her venom. She and Erchirion were close, at least as close as he and Eowyn, and he does not think he has ever heard her be cross with him.

Erchirion's scowl deepens. "We will have this discussion privately or not at all, Lothiriel."

"Fine," she spits, before turning back to Eomer. Her fierce expression falters. "Thank you for the escort, my lord."

She is invoking propriety for her brother's sake, he knows, but he much prefers his name to his title coming from her lips. "As I said, I am yours to command, my lady."

If looks could kill, the one Erchirion sends him would likely rob the Mark of its king, but the sudden flash of mirth on Lothiriel's face tells him his humor is appreciated by at least one royal of Dol Amroth.

* * *

Erchirion's grip is nearly bruising around her elbow as he all but drags her towards Duilin's shop. Irritated as she is with him, she has no desire to set her brother off in public-they all have the Pelargirian temper, when provoked, even Elphir-and the thought of having a row within hearing range of any portion of Edoras's population is singularly mortifying.

Duilin looks up when Erchirion all but flings the door open, eyeing them with interest.

"I see you've found your wayward sister, Prince Erchirion. Am I to excuse myself from what will undoubtedly be a civil and polite conversation between siblings?" He asks. "Or shall I stay to mediate the ensuing squabble like a schoolmaster would?"

"Master Duilin," Erchirion starts, clearly taken aback by the healer's attitude, "I apologize for this sudden intrusion-"

"You need not mediate," Lothiriel interrupts-she knows her teacher well enough to see the mischievous twinkle in his eye-and she ignores her brother's gobsmacked look as she pulls her elbow out of his grip to cross the room and plant a kiss on Duilin's weathered cheek. "I know the rules of your shop well, _stearcmód láréow_."

"No bloodshed, no wasting of supplies," he reminds her, patting her hand. "And I am seeing patients in an hour, at which time I expect the two of you to have this resolved."

And with that he turns on his heel and vanishes out the backdoor. Lothiriel thinks she even hears him _whistling_ and shakes her head at his antics. Turning to face her brother and crossing her arms, she leans herself against the well-worn table. "You wanted to speak to me, Erchirion. So speak."

"You hardly have any right to take that sort of tone with me, given what I have just witnessed," he shoots back. "By the Valar, Lothiriel, have you no sense?"

" _Me_? I was not the one absent for an entire day yesterday, doing Elbereth knows what in some field with someone I am neither betrothed nor married to-"

"Oh! But letting the king kiss your hand in the middle of a public street, that is not worthy of censure?"

"It was my _hand_ , Erchirion," she hisses, "hardly something to cause a scandal."

But he is right-it had not felt so innocent. And if he had not found them, Lothiriel doubts she could have stopped herself from curling her fingers around Eomer's jaw and stretching up to press her lips to his, to finally know what his mouth would feel like against something other than the backs of her fingers.

Erchirion pinches the bridge of his nose. "You cannot be that naive. You are too intelligent and too conscious of your reputation to not have considered how compromising a position you could have been in, had someone other than me found you."

"As you were the one who found us, that point is irrelevant," Lothiriel says. "Whereas you will most certainly have to face the ramifications for your irresponsibility yesterday. Sweet Elbereth, Erchirion, everyone knows Lisswyn could not be found! We nearly tore apart the keep looking for her! It will not take much for Cwenhild's excuse to be disproven, and even less for someone to mention that you were conspicuously absent as well. What will you say to Eothain, to Eothred, when they question you?"

"The truth," he answers, a little bit of anger bleeding out of his expression. "I have nothing to lie about. I love her and I intend to marry her, with their blessing."

Lothiriel can feel her jaw drop open. "Erchirion-"

"Of course I will write to Ada and Naneth, as well," he blazes on, eyes focused somewhat dreamily over her shoulder, "I know our duty to our parents, Lothiriel, surely you do not doubt that?"

"No, of course not, but 'Chirion," oh, Elbereth, her sweet brother, her _best_ brother, "surely you cannot imagine they will approve?"

His eyes snap back into focus, gaze near scorching on her face. "What?"

"I do not mean they would not like to," she tries, feeling utterly wretched, all earlier anger at him bled away in the face of his confusion, "for Lisswyn is a wonderful woman and a good match for you in so many ways...but brother, think of what she will face in the courts! Of what you will face, how they will whisper of Darwyn's parentage, mock you both for marrying out of your stations-"

"And you think I care for any of that?" Erchirion asks. " _Ed' i'ear ar' elenea_ , Lothiriel, it as if you do not know me at all!"

"I know you do not care what the courts think of you," Lothiriel says, "but they will make all three of your lives miserable, because they will not understand."

"Then we will not go to the courts," he counters. "Ada and Naneth will not deny me my birthright, or our uncles to the South can make easy use of me as a captain-"

"You, in Pelargir? Erchirion, you are a fine warrior, but you fight for the necessity of it, not out of any real affection for it. And our uncles know this."

"Then we will stay here. In Rohan. I am our family's best horseman-"

"Life in an eored is more battles, Erchirion," she cuts across him, wincing at the sharp look he sends her. "And you cannot speak Rohirric at all-"

"You have learned it, it cannot be that difficult-" He stops himself, a shadow falling across his face. "Why did you choose to learn Rohirric, sister?"

Blinking at the sudden subject change, she shrugs. "It is easier to talk to people from the far reaches of the Mark in the language they understand. And I wanted to know the meaning behind all of the nicknames people were giving me-"

"People," he repeats, "or Eomer King?"

Lothiriel can feel her face flush crimson. "Erchirion-"

"No, Lothiriel. If my courtship of Lisswyn is as _ridiculous_ to you as you have made it sound, you must understand that I consider the idea of him pursuing you equally unlikely."

The breath is all but pushed from her lungs in surprise. "What?"

"There is no need for such an alliance. Eowyn and Faramir's marriage will tie Rohan and Gondor together. Eomer will need to look within his own borders for a bride, to better strengthen his councilors' faith in him. As much as the common people like you, you are still Gondorian, still a foreign lady with only the barest of notions of how Rohirric society works."

"I-"

"And who is to say you are the only lady whose hands he's kissing in alleyways? He is a young king, and a handsome one, and there is no shortage of women the Mark over who would happily volunteer to be his queen-"

"You are saying this to hurt me," Lothiriel says, "and I know you are angry that I do not think your courtship of Lisswyn will end in happiness, but it is the _truth_ , Erchirion. I do not take pleasure in it. Or your unhappiness."

He scoffs. "You say it because you are afraid. Afraid that all of those around you will find happiness and you will not."

Tears well in her eyes. Erchirion is her dearest brother, and has been her comfort through many hurts. So many balls, so many nights where she has been left partnerless and alone. He knows her darkest, most private fears, and thus knows where to drive the knife deepest, like he is doing now. "I _do_ want your happiness, 'Chirion."

"Any other day of our lives, I would have believed that," he snaps. "I will marry Lisswyn, Lothiriel, with or without your support. I had not thought you to be so selfish."

Dimly, she's aware of the door to Duilin's shop opening and closing as he leaves. She's somehow managed to sink onto the nearest stool without falling over. The blood is rushing unpleasantly behind her ears. Her throat is tight, her vision blurry.

Perhaps Erchirion is right. She does feel selfish. And small. And mean. Perhaps she is, to not have supported him in her usual fashion, as she has since she was old enough to have opinions on anything. It would not be too late to run after him, to tell him that he was right, that _of course_ she would be delighted to have Lisswyn as a sister, that she would support them as a couple in spite of any obstacle-

But it would be a lie. And that, above all else, she cannot endure.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So. Yeah. Please put down the pitchforks, whether they're intended for me OR Erchirion. There's a purpose to this, I promise! Pinky swear! (And yes, Erchirion could have been less of a dick, obviously, but he's also a man in love and at odds with his sister that he's maybe fought with...three or four times before in their entire lives? Not a great combination.)

And I DID manage to give y'all some E/L goodness to make up for the bad at the end.

On the rest of this chapter: Before I have any entymologists leaping down my throat about Wilfled and Eothain's daughter's name: yes, technically going by the rest of the names thus far both in canon and in this story, Blodwyn probably closely translates to 'white joy'. But in this instance, I adapted a Celtic name-Blodwen-which does mean white flower. But as -wyn is much more common in Rohirric names, it just seemed fitting. Roll with me here, people.

 **Terms:**

 _cumpæder:_ godfather

 _Bewáest ac bist gebewiten:_ Keep and be kept, though it should be noted I am not a student of Old English, so this could be conjugated very badly

 _stearcmód láréow:_ stubborn teacher

 _Ed' i'ear ar' elenea:_ By the sea and stars! This is an Elvish phrase, not a Rohirric one


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Back again! Seriously cannot thank y'all enough for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites.

 **Crime of Passion '06** , to answer your question: I actually don't have a set number of chapters for this story! I have a big outline, but sometimes ideas bloom into little bunny trails, and I end up having to separate what was supposed to be one chapter into two. Also, I feel as if I should mention this entire story is merely Part 1 of a two-part series...this is all pre-wedding stuff for Eomer and Lothiriel, and there's another story for their wedding and first few months as a married couple forthcoming. I hope you'll all stick around for it!

As for this chapter, it's a bit more introspective, for both of our favorite duo. We get another glimpse into some culture clashes between Rohan and Gondor. Also: cloaks.

Oh! And you guys can find me over on tumblr now, at **theemightypen**. Feel free to send me questions, concerns, and what-have-yous!

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

* * *

Lothiriel is grateful that Yule is almost upon them, for no one thinks to question her sudden insistence to stay by Eowyn's side at nearly all times. After all, she is more than a little overwhelmed with the planning of the various feasts and celebrations. Lothiriel would be remiss in her duties as both a friend and near-kinswoman in not offering Eowyn any and all help she can.

But her real reasons are not entirely altruistic. She and Erchirion have not spoken since their last, disastrous confrontation in Duilin's shop, and the tension is beginning to show. If she enters a room, he leaves. If she speaks, he finds someone else to engage in conversation… and the pattern goes on. And though being in Eowyn's presence constantly brings her near Eomer fairly often as well, they've yet to be alone again either. Every time she finds herself wanting to explain her sudden distance, her retreat back into near Minas Tirithian-levels of propriety, Erchirion's words ring in her ears again: _Eomer will need to look within his own borders for a bride_. And Dol Amroth is many things, but Rohirric is decidedly not one of them.

Lothiriel knows very well that she is terrible at hiding her emotions, even worse at lying, and so it does not come as a terrible shock when Eowyn all but pulls her into her rooms one morning and forces her into a chair.

"You are not yourself," Eowyn says sternly, hands on her hips. "And if you say 'I am fine' one more time, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, I will hang you from the rafters by your toes."

"That would be a truly impressive feat," Lothiriel quips, trying for levity.

Eowyn looks unimpressed. "Between Eomer and myself, I think we could manage. You have us both worried, _min drut_."

Oh, that was not _fair_. She knows Eomer has likely been more than a little vexed by her sudden coldness, as he has every right to be. "I am sorry," she says, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers. "You are right, Eowyn, but I do not know...I do not know if I should speak of it. To anyone. Even you."

Eowyn frowns, abruptly kneeling on the carpet and taking Lothiriel's hands between hers. "Whatever you tell me can be in strict confidence. Even Faramir will not know of it from me. But whatever it is, it is eating you alive, Lothiriel, and that I cannot watch."

Lothiriel sighs, tears pricking at her eyes again. It feels as if that has all she has done in the past weeks. Cry. "Erchirion and I quarrelled."

"Mm," hums Eowyn. "I thought as much."

"We have argued maybe four times in our lives before this-it was always Elphir I butted heads with, and Amrothos for Erchirion-but this, this...I do not know if we can be close again, after this."

"Surely it is not so dire as that? Why, Eomer and I used to get into screaming matches so loud that Uncle swore the roof of Meduseld would rattle, but we would be fast friends again not days later."

Lothiriel smiles briefly at the thought of a young Eowyn and Eomer bickering-likely not all that different from what their current selves would look and sound like-before frowning once more. "I wish it had been just a loud disagreement, Eowyn. It is the matter we discussed that has caused this rift, not our tempers."

Eowyn quirks an eyebrow, clearly expecting her to explain.

And suddenly, Lothiriel finds she cannot carry this secret anymore, cannot keep this hurt walled up in her heart with only Aly's letters to soothe it. "Erchirion wants to marry Lisswyn," she says, nearly stuttering over her words in her haste.

Now Eowyn's eyebrows shoot towards her hairline, a look so utterly reminiscent of Eomer that it makes Lothiriel's heart ache. "And you do not approve?"

"No! No, I mean, yes, I approve, I am very fond of Lisswyn and think her a fine match for my brother but Eowyn-oh, Eowyn, I fear for her. For them!"

"And why is that?"

"The courts, the damned, pretentious, greedy courts. They will eat them alive, both of them. Erchirion for daring to love someone not of noble blood, Lisswyn for marrying above her station-as if it matters! But if they marry, there will be no place in Gondor that will open their doors to them, regardless of Lisswyn's goodness, or Erchirion's royal status."

Eowyn frowns. "And you are sure of this? Sure that is what they would face? Or they would not be happy, as long as they had each other?"

Lothiriel hesitates. "I would like to believe that," she says, after thinking for a few moments. "That the courts would prove themselves already changed under Aragorn and Arwen's influence. Or if not, that they could live in a little house somewhere, just the two of them, Darwyn, and whatever babes the Valar sees fit to bless them with, but I do not know if that would be enough for a lifetime of happiness. Elphir is accustomed to being a prince, Lisswyn is Merthwyn's heir apparent for Meduseld's Housekeeper...a quiet life in some tiny town does not suit either thing that they have been raised to do."

"That I can agree on," Eowyn says. "But Lothiriel, your mother has managed the courts. I will have to manage them. Do you think you are perhaps assuming the worst, for Lisswyn?"

 _You are afraid. Afraid that all of those around you will find happiness and you will not_.

"I...suppose so," Lothiriel agrees, quietly. "I am not as brave as you, Eowyn."

Eowyn squeezes her hands. "It is another kind of bravery to know one's fears. Your concern for them does you credit, but they are grown people, Lothiriel, and will have to make their own choices, for good or for ill."

Offering her a watery smile, Lothiriel nods. "You are right. And I am sorry I have been acting so strange-"

"But I do not think this is the only thing you and Erchirion argued about," Eowyn interrupts. "Because it is not just I who has seen a very different Lothiriel, of late."

 _Eomer._

"You are right," she murmurs, unable to meet Eowyn's eyes. "I-Erchirion was upset that I did not support his intentions to court Lisswyn and he...he said a few things about someone he thinks I would not be a suitable match for."

Eowyn curses, suddenly, startling her. " _Dysig_ _brōþor_! I knew he had not made his intentions clear!"

"W-what?"

"Lothiriel, correct me if I am wrong, but I assume Erchirion meant Eomer?"

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel nods. "He said that there could be no chance of...of Eomer paying court to me. That he would need to marry within Rohan's borders, that I was too foreign-"

"Your brother is lucky if I do not wring his neck," Eowyn growls. "Of all the things to say! Our own grandmother was from Gondor and much beloved by our people. And you have already made more of a name for yourself just as my friend, let alone as a potential queen-"

"Eowyn!"

Eowyn rolls her eyes. "If you think the two of you have been subtle, you are a fool. A lovely, endearing fool, but a fool all the same. Bema, the longing glances you have been giving each other the past two weeks have been enough to give me fits."

Lothiriel covers her face with her hands. "Oh, Elbereth. Oh, Eowyn, someone will tell my father, surely-"

"Lothiriel," Eowyn says, gently peeling one hand back. "It is only obvious to those of us who know you best. And I say this with full confidence: I have no doubt of my brother's intention to court you. As to what _your_ brother said...I think he spoke out of both spite and concern. Either way, he will be made to see the errors of his thinking before long."

"Do you intend to hang him from the rafters by his toes?" Lothiriel asks.

Eowyn stares at her for a moment before they both dissolve into helpless laughter, her head leaned on Lothiriel's shaking shoulder.

"No," she finally says, a rather dangerous smirk on her face, "but Eomer might."

* * *

Eomer cannot blame his squires for being wary whenever he calls for food or more parchment. He has been in an admittedly black temper for nigh two weeks now. Between the council's constant squabbling, the sudden drop in temperature, and Lothiriel's strange standoffishness, he has not been on his best behavior by any stretch of the imagination.

So when he hears the door swing open, his responding bark of "What?" is hardly out of the ordinary.

"Bema, you're in a pleasant mood," says Eowyn.

Groaning, he turns to face his sister. "Eowyn, I have neither the time nor the patience for any more discussions about how many cloves of spices should go into the wassail-"

"Good, because I have not come to discuss wassail. Though, if you must know, the final agreed upon number was seven."

He lets his head fall to the desk with a rather loud thud. "The gods must be punishing me."

"You know, I think the kingship has made you more dramatic," Eowyn says drolly, perching herself upon the corner of his desk. "But I have something that may help pull you out of your doom and gloom, brother."

"Is it a mug of ale? Because Eothain has already tried that-"

"No, it is not ale," she interrupts, flicking his shoulder. "Since you would not do it, I took it upon myself to find out what has been troubling our dear Lothiriel."

Eomer nearly chokes on the breath he'd just taken. It takes Eowyn pounding on his back for a number of moments to get him to stop coughing. "Eowyn," he finally manages to growl. "I have asked you not to meddle-"

"You are not the only one who cares for her," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Even Duilin has expressed concern about her behavior of late. And my suspicions were correct: she and Erchirion quarreled."

Eomer snorts. "A blind man could have told you as much."

"A blind man could _not_ have told me the reason behind it," she counters. "Of which there are two, but one that should be of particular interest to you."

Oh, _helle_. "Eowyn-"

"Erchirion has put the idea into her head that you could not _possibly_ be serious about courting her," Eowyn says, the expression on her face clearly indicating her own thoughts on the matter.

That stops him short. "What?"

"You are serious about her, aren't you?" She asks. "Because if he is right, it will not be the Prince of Dol Amroth hanging from Meduseld's rafters, but _you_."

Eomer pulls at his hair. "Of course I am serious about-Eowyn, I have never felt this way about a woman in my _life_."

He hasn't put it into words, before now, but it is the truth. The past two weeks of stilted conversations and limited contact have only thrown into further relief how much he enjoys her quick wit, her easy laughter. He suspects he would find her lovely always, but she is much more suited to her usual smiles and blushes than the more stoic look she's adopted of late. This new, distant creature was not the true Lothiriel. Bema, it has been _torture_ , to watch her pull away and not know the reason for her sudden reserve.

Eowyn's grin is smug. "Good. I have been looking forward to saying 'I told you so' for months."

He groans anew. "Is that really necessary?"

"I am afraid so," she says, not sounding terribly sorry. "Speak to Erchirion, Eomer, and then decide what you would like to do with the furs the Dunlendings gifted to you."

"How do you-" Eomer stops himself with a frown. "Eothain."

"Eothred, actually," Eowyn chirps, entirely too cheerful. "Who now owes Faramir and I at least five gold coins. He predicted you would not realize what you felt for her until my wedding."

" _Faramir_ -Eowyn, those letters could be easily intercepted-"

With one last eye roll, she hops down from his desk to give his cheek a less-than-gentle pat. "I have no secrets from my betrothed. Least of all the happy news that my _charming_ idiot of a brother has taken a rather fond interest in his most beloved cousin."

With that rather unsettling parting remark, Eowyn departs with a smile.

Eomer lets his head hit the desk one more time, for good measure.

* * *

 _...oh, Lothiriel, I hate to think of you dealing with all of this on your own. Is there no one you can turn to, to ease this weight from your shoulders? And Erchirion! To say something so callous to you, his own dear Thiri! He is lucky that I am not a better rider, else I would mount Elphir's horse and accompany this letter to Rohan just to have the privilege of boxing his ears myself._

Lothiriel cannot help but smile at Alycia's outrage. It will ease her sister-in-law's mind to know that she has spoken of the fight to Eowyn, and for that, she is glad.

"A smile! A smile at last!" Crows Eothain, startling her into almost dropping her letter into her goblet. "Bema, I thought you had forgotten how to, _glómmung cwén_."

She lifts her head to glare at him, but cannot stay stern for too long. No one could, when presented with the image of Eothain with Eofor on his shoulders and tiny Blodwyn slumbering in his arms. "Very funny, Eothain."

"I have been called so in the past," he agrees. "What is that has finally made our dear Lothiriel happy again, hm?"

"A letter from my sister-in-law," she answers. "She and Wilfled together would be a force to be reckoned with."

"Hah!" He laughs. "I am sure they are plenty forceful on their own."

" _Faeder_ , may I get down?" Eofor interrupts. Eothain look up in alarm, clearly worried about his son squishing his daughter in his haste to get down from his shoulders, and Lothiriel hides a smile behind her hand at his distress.

"Here, I can hold her," She offers, holding her arms out towards her goddaughter.

Eothain breathes a sigh of relief, passing off the sleeping infant before reaching up to help Eofor in his descent. Lothiriel coos at Blodwyn, grateful that the quick hand off has not roused her. She had held Alphros as a baby, many times, but does not remember him being this small, this delicate. But Blodwyn cries much less often than Alphros ever had, and is most content in someone's arms, like she is now.

Eofor scampers off as soon as his feet touch the floor, clearly intent on some mischief, but Eothain lingers, settling down onto the bench beside her with a smile.

"So, _glómmung cwén_ ," he says, "what are Gondor's Yule traditions?"

"They are not so very different from Rohan's," she admits. "There are presents, of course, and time spent with family and friends. We do not have wassail, but spiced ale is certainly popular."

"Perhaps you can be persuaded to make us some," he says pleasantly. "I admit I find Gondor's beer rather like piss-" He catches himself, and she cannot help but laugh at the uncomfortable look on his face, likely brought on by Cwenhild's sudden glare from down the table, "er, unable to hold a candle to the Mark's, but spiced ale sounds much more enjoyable."

Still laughing, she pats his elbow.. "I am glad not all of our beverages seem so unappetizing."

"And presents, you said? Who gives and who receives, in Gondor?"

"Oh, everyone. Parents to their children, siblings, friends-"

"Hm. And what of sweethearts?"

Lothiriel can _feel_ the blush in her cheeks. "I would not know, Eothain, as I have never had one."

"But it's likely they exchange gifts, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Eothain's grin is nearly blinding. "And what is an appropriate gift, for a sweetheart to give?"

"Something the object of their affection likes, presumably," she answers.

"And what is it _you_ like, Lothiriel?"

"Why, Eothain," she says, feigning shock, "fond as I am of you, I am not in the habit of accepting sweetheart gifts from a married man."

Eothain throws his head back to laugh, shaking the bench as he does so. Blodwyn's eyes flutter open at the sound of her father's mirth, but mercifully close again without incident.

"There's that wit," he chuckles. "We've all missed it nearly as much as your smiles."

"You are ridiculous," she tells him.

"And _you_ are avoiding my question. Tell me truly, princess, what would a man gift to you to earn your favor?"

"Something to keep her warm," chimes in Eowyn, seemingly appearing from thin air. "Poor Lothiriel has not stopped shivering since the snows started."

"I do not know how your people have survived winters like this for three Ages," Lothiriel agrees, grateful for her friend's interference. "It is not natural."

Eothain ignores her attempt at a change in subject, leaning his chin into the palm of his hand. "Something to keep her warm, eh? Helpful as always, Eowyn." At that, he plucks Blodwyn effortlessly from Lothiriel's arms before standing. "Good day to you, ladies."

Lothiriel watches him go, more than a little bewildered. "I...am not entirely certain what just happened."

Eowyn merely grins. "I suspect he is just as tired as I am of watching you and Eomer making cow eyes at each other."

"I-we do _not_ -"

"Yes, you do. And now I think I understand why you called Faramir and I simultaneously charming and nauseating."

"That is not a fair comparison," Lothiriel complains, "for I highly doubt that any sort of longing glances-if there were any!-can be as sickeningly sweet as the sight of the pair of you nuzzling noses."

At last, it is Eowyn's turn to blush. "When did you see that?"

"The library is hardly the most private of places, Eowyn," she says. "Though I doubt the two of you would have heard an army of Oliphaunts parading by, with the state you were in."

"Oliphaunts indeed," Eowyn huffs, cheeks still flushed. "You are exaggerating."

"I recall calling Fara's name for a number of minutes before I spotted you, to no avail," Lothiriel says, smugly. "If not Oliphaunts, than _at least_ a veritable pack of Orcs."

"You are horrid," Eowyn tells her. "No wonder you and Eomer are so well suited."

Lothiriel flings a napkin at her to distract the hall from her affronted squeak. Eowyn merely grins, and when they begin their lesson for the day-this time on appropriate menus for a royal feast-Lothiriel feels at ease, truly at ease, for the first time in weeks. A small measure of giddy embarrassment hardly seems like a steep price, for that.

* * *

Erchirion looks understandably confused as he passes Gamling into Eomer's study. Despite his extended stay in Edoras, Eomer thinks he can count the private conversations they've had on one hand. Between his duties as king and...whatever it is Erchirion has been occupying himself with of late, there's been little overlap. But Eomer knows him enough, from their time in Minas Tirith and before, on the way to Morannon.

He knows Erchirion to be the quietest of Imrahil's children-well, he cannot speak for the eldest son, Elphir, who he has yet to meet-the most prone to both romanticism and melancholy, and an excellent rider. And proud, in the way that many Gondorians are.

"You wished to speak to me, Eomer King?" Erchirion asks, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes," he answers. "And it's a matter of importance, so please make yourself comfortable."

Erchirion's face is not nearly as readable as his younger sister's, but Eomer thinks he can see a hint of alarm there, coupled with...guilt? It's an odd look, out of place on the prince's usually even countenance.

He sits, fidgeting almost anxiously with the goblet of wine Eomer passes him. The silence drags out in an uncomfortable way-Eomer is not prone to nervousness, but Bema, he has never been in this sort of situation before. _Helle_ , how had Faramir done it? How does a man politely tell a brother in arms, a _prince_ , that he has intentions towards his sister? Honorable intentions, to be sure, though Erchirion would likely have his head on a platter if he knew the contents of some of his less than...proper dreams-

"I think I know what this is about," Erchirion says, suddenly, startling Eomer out of his recollection of the last, tortuous dream that had involved a much, much emptier stable and a conveniently rain-drenched Lothiriel.

"You do?" Bema, his voice is nearly as high as a green boy's, and he clears his throat, damming his nervousness. "I admit, that does not surprise me-"

"Yes, it's not exactly a secret, is it?" laughs Erchirion, though his mouth is turned in a self-deprecating sort of way.

 _That_ gives Eomer pause, because for all of Eothain's teasing and Eowyn's meddling, not one of his councilors nor any of his other guardsmen have mentioned Lothiriel to him as anything other than a diplomatic guest. It may have been another story if they'd been witness to what Eothred had, in the stables, or been the ones to stumble upon them in the alleyway behind Duilin's shop, like Erchirion himself. But they had not. Quirking an eyebrow, he studies the other man.

"Erchirion, I'll speak plainly: I would like to court your sister."

Erchirion coughs, having just choked on the sip of wine he's taken. " _What_?"

Clearly they had been at cross-purposes, for this to surprise him. "What did you think I was talking about?"

"Not-" He coughs again, pounding his fist against his chest a few times for good measure, "that."

Eomer frowns. "Well, what then?"

"A different matter, of equal importance," the other man admits, rubbing a hand over his face. "Elbereth, Eomer, are you serious?"

"This is hardly something I would joke about," Eomer says, feeling a sudden spike of irritation towards the prince. Was it so ludicrous that he should want to court Lothiriel? She was a princess, well taught in terms of diplomacy and leadership. Kind to a fault, loyal to the point of stubbornness...and Bema, beauty for days. She was a true friend to Eowyn, had earned Wilfled and Eothain's affection, charmed even Duilin with her hard work and easy smiles...there was little point pretending any longer that she has not charmed him, too.

Erchirion fixes him with a stare. "By the Valar, you _are_ in earnest. I thought it a flirtation-"

"I am not prone to flights of fancy," Eomer growls, well on the way to losing his temper. "And do you think I would spit in the face of the respect I have for her, for your family, to string her along so?"

In his surprise, Erchirion's face is as open as Lothiriel's. And Eomer can see that's _exactly_ what he had thought. "You must think very little of me, then-"

"No," Erchirion interrupts, looking horrified. "Eomer, you have to understand. Lothiriel has never had a suitor before-well, at least not ones she has been aware of, let alone any she would seriously consider-and you are Rohan's _king_. Much as she has come to like it here, surely there are some of your countrywomen who are better suited to the role as queen?"

Eomer can only imagine what his face looks like. "Are you implying that Lothiriel is somehow _not_ suited?"

"I-she is young, and tender-hearted," Erchirion mumbles, "and no amount of Rohirric lessons will make her less Gondorian. I would think your people would be more comfortable with a queen that comes from within their own borders-"

He cannot help but bark a laugh at that. For all the effort that Lothiriel has put into understanding the eorlingas and the Mark itself, it appears her brother has remained willfully untaught. "Erchirion. They call her Lady Twilight. The Elves have called our people 'the Men of Twilight' for two Ages. I think they would be more than willing to accept her."

 _Though no doubt there are those who would take issue_ _with another Gondorian Queen of the Mark_ , a little voice whispers, _or have you forgotten Bledgifu's insults already?_

"I had not realized her nickname to be so significant," Erchirion murmurs, seemingly lost in thought. "I thought Eothain had heard of our discussion at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, and it was just at translation."

"That is likely where it started," Eomer concedes, "but my people do not take names lightly. They would not call her thus if they did not think it fitting." That, at least, is the truth. No matter Bledgifu's opinions, there was no denying that the people of Edoras were as fond as Lothiriel as she so plainly was of them.

Erchirion pinches the bridge of his nose. "Elbereth, but I have been a fool. I owe you an apology, Eomer. And likely Lothiriel one as well. But you should know that my approval matters very little on whether you may court her or not."

Eomer nods. "I said the same thing to Faramir, when he asked for Eowyn's hand. It is a mere courtesy, to ask the family's permission, but as you are the only member of her family nearby-"

"A matter of courtesy?" Erchirion repeats in an incredulous tone. "Betrothals are not considered binding without the approval of both of a woman's parents."

"What?" He asks.

Erchirion sighs. "Merciful Valar. Is the Rohirric tradition for betrothals so different?"

"The only permission needed to begin a courtship is the woman's," Eomer says. "Having her family's blessing is to be hoped for, but it is not the determining factor."

Something like thoughtfulness crosses Erchirion's face. "Only the woman's?" Two spots of color appear in his cheeks when Eomer arches an eyebrow at him. "As...interesting as that may be, we are still of Gondor, Eomer. Lothiriel cannot enter into any sort betrothal without both my father and my mother's permission."

Eomer scowls. It should not surprise him, given what he knows about other Gondorian traditions, but Bema, how cold! How unfair! He knows that the majority of their southern neighbors enter into arranged marriages, but he had supposed Dol Amroth to be different. Were Gondorians not expected to be able to trust their own hearts?

"Though I do not doubt they will give their approval," Erchirion says, interrupting his thoughts. "My father has liked you from the very first, and there is little my mother does not agree with him on."

"You speak of their approval," Eomer says, "but not of yours."

"Did you approve of Faramir?" Erchirion shoots back.

"From the moment I saw Eowyn after Morannon," he admits. "You did not see my sister before she fought the Witch King. You did not see her, here, surrounded by shadows and dark things until she was nearly one of them. Hounded by a man I could not protect her from, who supplanted even Theodred in my uncle's heart-" He cuts himself off. Taking a deep breath to push those memories away-Bema, how he had failed her, no matter what Lothiriel thinks-and meets Erchirion's eyes. "Faramir healed her in ways I doubt any other man could, no matter their skill or strength of heart. What right would I have to question her choice?"

Erchirion stares at him for a moment. "She smiles more. Lothiriel, I mean, when she is near you. I had not noticed until after your return from the West-mark-my sister has always been prone to happiness, and Valar knows she is abysmal at hiding those blushes of hers, but...these are different smiles." He leans back in his chair with a sigh. "As you said, who am I to question her choice? Despite our recent...quarrel, I have only ever wanted Thiri's joy."

"Being an older brother is no easy thing," Eomer says, smiling slightly.

Erchirion snorts. "That we can agree on, Eomer King." He stands, abruptly, holding out his hand. "I cannot give my blessing for a betrothal, but I can give my permission for...appropriate wooing."

Eomer suspects this, like so many other Gondorian traditions, will be needlessly stifling and formal. But short of writing Imrahil and Lady Dejah a likely rambling letter, he will have to make due. For now.

He reaches out to shake the prince's hand when he finds himself suddenly pulled to his feet. Erchirion's grip is nearly vice-like and despite the number of inches Eomer has on the other man, he nearly takes a step back at the fierce look on his face. "I know you to be an honorable man, Eomer King, and a wise ruler. You have been an admirable host and a good friend, to both myself and my family. But if you hurt her, in any fashion-"

He cannot stop himself from recoiling at the thought. "Not for the wide world would I cause Lothiriel any pain." He stops himself from saying _unlike you_ , if only just.

Erchirion's expression softens, slightly, and he shakes Eomer's hand with a nod. "Then may the Valar bless your efforts, my friend."

He turns on his heel before Eomer can utter so much as a word. Eothain's face appears in the doorway when Erchirion opens it, and he offers the prince a passably polite bow before ambling into the room, Blodwyn in his arms.

"I did not say you could come in," Eomer complains.

"Is that any way to greet the father of your godchild?" Eothain quips back. "Besides, I have news for you, Eomer King."

Groaning, Eomer covers his eyes with a hand. "Of course you do."

"Our dear _glómmung cwén_ is not accustomed to our harsh, Rohirric winters," Eothain continues on, grinning widely. "And the Dunlendings _did_ say you should put those furs to good use-"

"Out," Eomer growls.

Gamling mercifully appears, herding his captain from the room. But Eothain is not finished, calling out behind him as he goes, "Yule is only two weeks away, Eomer! Best head down to the shops now, if you want any good fabric-"

The door shutting cuts off his friend's voice. But the idea lingers, all through his missives and letters to Aragorn. A cloak in a deep green similar to the color of the dress she'd borrowed from Eowyn, with a fur-lined hood...perhaps Eothain was on to something.

"Freca!" He calls, smirking slightly at the sound of his page's yelp. "Find Mistress Théodburga."

* * *

Duilin's shop is warm, illuminated by a merrily crackling fire in its hearth. Yet Lothiriel still shivers, blushing at her tutor's amused chuckle.

"By the Valar, girl, you act as if you have never seen winter before," he tells her, abruptly dumping a pile of blankets into her lap. "But I do not want to think what Eowyn would say should I let you freeze while under my care."

"Likely something most Gondorian noblewomen would consider very impolite," Lothiriel laughs through chattering teeth. But all of this-the mention of her aversion to the cold, the blankets-makes her think of Eothain's earlier inquiries.

Makes her think of her own curiosity, regarding a sweetheart's gifts.

"Duilin," she says, glad for once that her face had already been flushed, "what is considered a traditional courting gift, in the Mark?"

She knows she has shocked him by his sudden silence. She lifts her eyes to meet his, only to find him smirking at her, hat slightly askew. "No suitors indeed," he chortles. "Did I not tell you that you were underestimating your appeal, hm?"

"I-"

"Come now, girl, tell me: what has your roguish not-suitor given you?"

"Nothing," she answers. "I-I would like to give him something."

That stops Duilin short. "Merciful Valar. He _is_ a lucky man."

Lothiriel can feel her blush deepen to an almost painful degree. "I will not if it is improper-"

He waves her off, easing himself into the chair beside hers. "No, no, it is not unheard of. You'll want it to be something practical, something that you can have a hand in making. A bottle of herbs is useful, yes, but hardly romantic...and pleasant as your singing voice is, I suspect you have no skill for original composition-" He ignores her outraged squeak, tapping his chin. "You're more than passing fair with a needle, are you not?"

She nods, a little uncertainly. "I cannot match a master embroiderer, at least not in the Rohirric style-"

"Lothiriel, this is a gift from you," Duilin interrupts. "And I have never seen any embroidery of higher quality than that found in Dol Amroth."

"I did bring a few patterns with me…" She says, voice trailing off as she pictures them. One is modeled after her father and brothers' favorite, and would feel strange to give to Eomer. Another is particularly feminine in design, gifted to her by Aunt Ivriniel, and also wrong for that reason alone. The last she had yet to attempt: it was a squared key pattern, intended to invoke protection and blessings for its wearer. It was strong, eye-catching, practical. Yes, that would work!

"Best stick to outer garments, girl," Duilin says, chucking her gently under her chin. "You don't want to give him the wrong impression."

Lothiriel splutters a laugh-she had been thinking of a blanket, in all honesty, but suddenly that seems too intimate, too forward. Elbereth knows the _thought_ of giving Eomer something he would sleep with, perhaps feel against his bare skin-

"A cloak, then," she manages to squeak, glad that Duilin cannot hear her thoughts. "Would that suit?"

"Aye," He says. "A fine idea, _glómmung cwén_."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** They're finally making moves! Sort of! I know y'all are all probably as tired of their glacial pace as Eowyn and Eothain are, but it serves a purpose, I promise.

So given the more formal nature of Gondor's society, coupled with the prevalence of arranged marriages, needing parental approval for a match only makes sense. Obviously the nobles don't want a bunch of teenagers pulling a Romeo and Juliet (or the Tolkien equivalent) and promising themselves to each other when they're not well suited/aren't from the same social level/unsuitable in some other way.

On the flip side, Rohan's culture is generally based around love matches. Obviously families can object if a woman wants to marry Hill Billy Bob, whose wives keep mysteriously dying, but for the most part, Rohirric families trust a courting couple to know what they're about/know the object of their affection before rushing into anything. Given the seriousness and commitment level associated with wedding marks, a betrothal isn't entered into lightly. And not all courtships end in betrothals in the Mark.

 **Terms:**

 _Dysig_ _brōþor:_ idiot brother


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** Oh, you guys. I'm so sorry for the HUGE delay in updating. I'm from Florida, and Hurricane Irma thankfully didn't do much damage to my house or any of my loved ones, but it did put me WAY behind at work. Unfortunately, fun writing had to take a back seat to work writing, hence why it took so long to get this chapter to y'all. I hope you're all still reading! This chapter's a bit shorter than normal, but that's only because the next one will be a bit longer.

As always: THANK YOU for the kind reviews. Y'all are amazing, and I'm so glad this story resonates with people. It's a blast to write, but it's even better hearing from y'all on things I'm doing well, and things that could use some tweaking. So again, thank you.

Also, I'm **theemightypen** on tumblr, if y'all ever want to come ask questions or yell at me to update faster!

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

* * *

Lothiriel is glad that Eowyn had had the foresight to insist that they send their Yule presents for her family ahead the week before, because the snows have begun in earnest, blanketing Edoras in white. Lovely as it is, it is nearly intolerably cold, though Wilfled rolls her eyes when she says as much.

"You have sturdy boots and woolen socks on," she insists, poking Lothiriel's thoroughly encased foot with her own, "as well as one of the warmest dresses Mistress Théodburga made for you. You have absolutely no reason to be shivering this close to the fire."

"And yet, here I sit, shivering," Lothiriel laughs.

"With a cloak over your lap, too," Wilfled answers. "Are you sure I cannot persuade you to tell me what the embroidery means?"

Lothiriel spares a prayer to the Valar that Wilfled had agreed to do their sewing in her rooms instead of the hall. Not only for the blush that heats her face now, but also that it gives them privacy from prying eyes. Namely Wilfled's meddling husband, but Erchirion as well, who would likely only have to take one look at the cloak before guessing its meaning.

The thought of her brother dims Lothiriel's mirth. They still have yet to heal the rift between them and Yule is now less than a week away. It is uncomfortable, to be so at odds at him, and more than a little saddening. With the rest of their family in Dol Amroth, there is no one else nearby for her to share their country's own Yule traditions with; Duilin is her only other countryman present, but he has been too long removed from Gondor, and prefers Rohan's own celebrations anyways.

As if her musings have summoned him, Erchirion appears rather suddenly in the doorway. "Lothiriel, may we-oh. I am interrupting."

Wilfled's eyes flick to hers, the question in them obvious. "I probably should relieve Eothain to put Blodwyn down for a nap," she says, "if you do not mind me leaving?"

"Blodwyn's comfort is more important than mine," Lothiriel says in a low tone. "And this talk is long overdue."

Wilfled nods, gathering her supplies. She pauses by Erchirion at the door, giving him a serious look. "Tread cautiously, prince, as your sister is well-armed with her sewing needles."

Lothiriel gives an exasperated laugh at her friend's antics, but Erchirion only grimaces, nearly shutting the door in Wifled's amused face in his hurry to make his way into the room. He hesitates before choosing to drop down into Wilfled's recently vacated seat with a groan. "Does everyone in Edoras know we have argued?"

"We are not particularly subtle people, Erchirion," Lothiriel answers. "And given the fact that we have exchanged perhaps a dozen words over the past fortnight, it would not take a genius to figure out that we are at odds."

He steeples his fingers over the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes from view. "I suppose not."

They sit in silence for a while-their tempers may have been spent in Duilin's shop, but Lothiriel suspects their stubbornness has not. Sighing, wholly tired of the entire situation, she reaches across the space between them to pull one of her brother's hands into her own. "I do not wish to have this distance between us any longer. I am sorry, Erchirion, that I did not react better. Lisswyn is wonderful, truly. I let my own fears blind me."

She still is not sure that a marriage between them will be an easy feat, but there is no denying that it would make them both very happy. And that is something she desires above all else: Erchirion's happiness. So she can at the very least be an ally for them here, in much more accepting Rohan, and hope that Naneth and Ada's influence will be enough to protect them once they've returned home.

Erchirion's hand turns over in hers, squeezing her fingers. "You should not be the one asking for forgiveness, Lothiriel. What I said was cruel, for no other reason than my own wounded pride. And I am sorry."

"Yes," she agrees, "but what I said was cowardly. We were both at fault."

He stares at her for a moment before a small smile appears on his face. _Oh_ , how she has missed his smiles. "Just like that? No sand in my boots? No buckets of water dumped on my head?"

"I will not deny that I would have liked to dunk your head in a bucket," she concedes, "but it has been so cold of late that I thought you might freeze and then I would be forced to explain your death to Naneth and Ada."

"I admire your restraint," he chuckles. The mirth in his expression fades and he squeezes her hand again. "But I do not know how you can forgive me so easily for what I said."

Lothiriel sighs. "You did hurt me, Erchirion. You took all of the fears I have shared with you over the years-every hurt, every slight-and flung them in my face. But that made me realize that I have too many fears. That I have let my worries keep me from doing things, feeling things, that I should not. And it was not fair of me to expect you to do the same, when Lisswyn so obviously returns your affection."

She's spent the better part of two weeks picking over her brother's words and her own. He'd been unkind, unnecessarily so, but perhaps not entirely wrong. She would always be an interloper to some of the Eorlingas-Bledgifu's stern face floats in her mind's eye-and there _is_ still so much for her to learn about the country and its people.

But her objections to Lisswyn were rooted solely in her own fears regarding Minas Tirith's court. Both he and Eowyn had been right to question her, on that.

And he is still Erchirion-her dearest brother, one of her closest friends. She loves him more than he has hurt her. She has never been able to hold a grudge, not with her family, and especially not with him.

"You have always been prone to worrying, Lothiriel. But you've also always been thoughtful, even as a little girl," Erchirion murmurs, interrupting her thoughts. "It's why you are Faramir's favorite, of course. You both have that same vein of compassion that inspires loyalty in others."

Lothiriel can feel her face heating in another blush. "I am nowhere near as good as Fara-"

"Yes, you are," he interrupts. "It is why the people here have welcomed you so thoroughly. I've been told the true significance to what they call you. How you did not throw that in my face when I said you were too foreign-"

A year ago she would have snapped at him, asked him how he could have stomached saying such mean, petty things to begin with, but now she offers him a wry smile. "I merely called upon the same restraint that kept me from turning you into an ice sculpture."

That startles a laugh out of him. "You have grown up, little flower. How did I miss it?"

"Well, you have been somewhat preoccupied of late…" She murmurs, earning a laugh.

"Not grown up enough not to tease," he corrects himself, tapping her nose. "But grown enough for suitors, apparently."

She runs her hands over the collar of the cloak, her fingers catching on the slightly raised edges of the pattern. "I have no suitors."

"And you will not in any official capacity, until Ada and Naneth give their approval," Erchirion agrees. "But there is at least one interested party that I think will please you."

"Erchirion-" She splutters, but her brother continues on, unfazed.

"Judging by the pattern of that cloak you are failing to hide behind your hands, I would say I have done right in encouraging him. I do hope you realize that Amrothos will be unbearable when he finds out. To think the man you called 'insufferable' for months has now captured your fancy-"

She brandishes one of her sewing needles in his direction. "If you tell him, Valar help you, Erchirion-"

He laughs so hard tears leak from his eyes, and Lothiriel finds herself joining in, despite the lingering horror she feels about Amrothos being informed about her "not-suitor". After weeks of not speaking, of the weight of their squabble weighing directly on her heart, to laugh with Erchirion again warms her better than any fire ever could.

* * *

The councilors are appeased by Aragorn's concession to their demands about the Dunlendings, and that combined with Yule's swift approach makes them less prone to near brawls in the midst of their meetings.

 _Small mercies_ , thinks Eomer, as Baldred and Eothred needle each other with yet another round of verbal barbs. Neither man has particularly ever liked the other, and spending so much time in close proximity has done little to improve that.

"At least no one's thrown a punch yet, sire," Erkenbrand mutters, clinking his mug against Eomer's in a show of celebration, however half-hearted.

"The day is young," Eomer grumbles back.

They have been in the council room for hours, and will likely be here for hours yet. While most of the councilors have settled back into their chairs to watch the frankly embarrassing display of temper from the Second Marshal and their fellow council member, he can read the tension in all of their shoulders, the sheer boredom writ clearly on some of their faces. They have addressed every pressing matter they can think of: where the crops will be planted come spring, whether or not to offer the newly allied Dunlendings a similar truce as they had to Dera's tribe, how many people will be permitted to travel to Ithilien for Eowyn's wedding. It dawns on him that there is no real reason that they must all stay here.

"Baldred, Eothred," he barks suddenly, startling more than one councilor out of a daze. "Will this argument keep until tomorrow?"

The two men exchange a look, united for once in their confusion. "What do you mean, Eomer King?"

"It is clear neither of you intends to bend on this matter," what exactly that was, Eomer had lost track of nearly an hour before, "and thus require no assistance from anyone else here."

"Are you calling for a recess, sire?" Gamling asks.

Eomer spares a moment to remind himself to reward his chief guardsman with a vat of ale at dinner before answering. "I am. Are there any of you who oppose this?"

Baldred opens his mouth, then abruptly closes it at the sudden kick he receives to his shin. From which councilor it came from, Eomer cannot discern, but it makes him smile, nonetheless.

"No, sire," says Erkenbrand, clearly masking laughter himself. "We are all in agreement."

"Good," Eomer says, mood swiftly improving. "We will reconvene tomorrow morning."

Given the speed at which the majority of the council-including a number of men in their sixteth winters-scramble to get out of the room, he assumes he has made an enjoyable choice for everyone involved. Erkenbrand, still grinning, thumps his shoulder before making his own exit. Only Eothred looks somewhat disgruntled, frowning at Eomer as he motions him to follow him out of the council chambers.

"I nearly had him worn down, sire," his marshal grumbles, "ten more minutes and he would have caved."

"Baldred does not cave," Eomer argues. "He merely starts with an outrageous demand and works his way back down to the more reasonable request he wanted all along."

Eothred groans. "Bema. He's a slippery one."

"He has been in the council for well over 20 years, Eothred. He is well-practiced in the art of politics and at getting what he wants."

Eothred's expression shifts into something worryingly mischievous. "Like presenting Dernhelm's daughter to you as a potential bride?"

Eomer stops short, hand braced on the door to his rooms. "What?"

"You did not catch on to that? She's been invited here by her father for Yule, and apparently is everything you-or at least the country-could want in a queen."

Eomer groans. "I suppose my own opinion on the matter is irrelevant to the council?"

"Well, you have scarcely let them know that you already have a potential queen in mind," Eothred says with a grin. He dodges Eomer's less-than-kingly punch. "And I doubt you have let _her_ know that either."

Eomer shuts the door in his face in response, rolling his eyes at the loud guffaws coming from the other side. Eothred is not wrong, though. Between Yule's swift approach and the seemingly endless cycle of paperwork-leading-into-council-meetings, he's scarcely been able to say more than a greeting in Lothiriel's direction, let alone anything of significance.

Such as anything concerning the cloak resting on the chair nearest the fire.

Mistress Théodburga has outdone herself, though her eyebrows had nearly hit her hairline when he had admitted that yes, this was a Yule gift, but no, it was not for Eowyn. She had regarded him quietly for a moment, one hand absently playing with the furs he'd passed to her.

"You are lucky that I have already taken the lady's measurements," she had said, eyes twinkling in an entirely disconcerting way. "Else the serving girls would carry this matter all over Edoras in a matter of hours."

 _Small mercies_ , he had thought then, but now, looking at the cloak, he cannot feel anything but grateful to the seamstress. The furs paired well with the dark emerald of the cloak, which was heavy enough to keep one warm without restricting too much movement. He can picture it all too well: Lothiriel, clothed in the colors of the Mark, furs warm and soft against the pink of her cheeks, her dark eyes bright with amusement, happiness-

A sudden knock at the door jerks him from his musings, and he stalks over to the door, frowning. "Eothred, what now?"

The door opens, revealing not Eothred's face, but Eowyn's.

"Ah, you _are_ here," she says cheerfully. Eowyn has always loved Yule, and likes it no less now that all of the ceremonies and festivities rest firmly in her small, stubborn hands. "I met Eothred in the hall and he said you had dismissed the council."

"Released them, more like," Eomer retorts, drawing a snort from his sister. "Is there something you need?"

"Only my dearest brother's company on this lovely, bright morning," is the answer, and she slips her arm through his before he can protest. "There's a fine layer of snow down. I thought you might like some fresh air."

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth. Personal missives-one from Aragorn, another from Merry-lay unread on the desk. Though he's dismissed the council for the day, there are a number of ways he could occupy himself inside-namely, what qualifies as "appropriate wooing" by Gondorian standards-instead. But Eomer has been cooped up for nigh a week now, and he cannot deny the simple joy it would bring him, to be outside. Kings have not the freedom of marshals, after all, and he does not think he has spent so much time indoors since he was a child.

"I suspect you would drag me out even if I should refuse," he mutters, earning a sharp pinch. "Luckily, I am willing to indulge you."

" _Luckily_ ," she repeats, thrusting his cloak towards him with her free hand. "I see you've found your good humor again, Eomer."

"How do the Yule preparations fare?" He asks, ignoring her less than subtle hint about _what_ -namely his conversation with Erchirion-has lifted him from his lingering ill-temper. Mercifully, Eowyn allows this change in subject with only a shake of her head at his side-stepping.

The first day of Yule is not three days away, but the keep and its inhabitants-indeed, the entirety of Edoras-are as well prepared as they possibly can be. Eowyn has had him practicing the traditional king's toast in his spare time, while she has been learning its female equivalent, as he does not yet have a queen. The guards open the doors for them as they pass, and the bracing wind distracts him from Eowyn's commentary on the feast's seating arrangements. She had not lied: the ground was indeed covered in powdery, white snow. Children, in their warmest clothes, run to and fro, shrieking their joy. Their parents and other craftsmen watch from the relative warmth of their stalls, the doorway of the stables.

All are smiling.

This is what they had fought for. Winter afternoons spent at play. A pair of new sweethearts exchanging a warm mug of ale, a wizened old man being helped down a lane by his granddaughter. For all that Rohan has lost-for all that _he_ has lost-seeing his people like this lifts an immeasurable weight off of his shoulders. _Helle_ , his heart.

Eowyn is watching him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I thought we had agreed not to give any early presents this year."

Eomer quirks an eyebrow at her. "I don't follow."

She reaches out to tap his cheek, grinning wider when he chuckles in surprise. "Your smile, of course. I thought it would take a miracle to see it again."

Embarrassed, but touched, he can only duck his head. "It is hardly a thing of value, Eowyn."

"It is to me," she insists, stubborn as ever. "And to all of those who love you."

Whatever he intends to respond to Eowyn's unexpected show of sentimentality is interrupted by Eothain's familiar voice. "Ah, the lion finally emerges from his cave!"

Rolling his eyes, Eomer turns to face his captain. "Not another nickname."

"As king, one can never have too many," chirps Eothain. " _Eadig_ , _céne...léona_ is hardly inappropriate, with that mane of yours."

Eomer offers him an unimpressed look.

"You can hardly take credit for that particular nickname, Eothain," Eowyn chimes in. The look on her face is pure mischief and Eomer can almost feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "We must give true credit where credit is due."

"The ladies of Edoras, if not all of Rohan, are all very... _intrigued_ by your hair, sire," Eothain says. "Or at least that's what Wilfled tells me."

"Bema, spare me," Eomer groans. As if his hair was anything to take note of! There were hundreds, thousands, of Eorlingas with hair just like his.

Eowyn and Eothain laugh, clearly enjoying his discomfort. Their mirth is cut short into gasps of surprise-he joins them in this-as a snowball collides rather forcefully with the back of his head.

Eothain's laughter begins anew, and he nearly doubles over, holding himself up with his hands on his knees. Eowyn and Eomer turn in unison to discover what sort of _fool_ would dare throw a snowball at the King of the Mark-

It's Eofor he spots first, looking torn between horror and hysterics as he looks back at them. But there is a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder. That hand is attached to an arm, which leads up and up and up, until he registers that it's Lothiriel's mortified face looking back at him. Her other arm is still extended. There can be no other culprit.

* * *

Here is how it happens, from her side.

She had been making the snow-logged, cold trip back from Duilin's shop, still warm from her teacher's company and a mug of spiced ale. Her thoughts have her preoccupied enough: Yule is one of her favorite times of year as well, especially in the wake of her and Erchirion's reconciliation. Despite the cold, she feels warm all the way through, especially when she brushes her fingers against the length of cord Duilin had given her, as a final touch to the cloak. A blur of brown and green abruptly barrels into her: Eofor's arms are tight around her waist, his blue eyes pitiful as he stares mournfully up at her.

"Modor promised she would come to the square with me today," he explains, "but Blodwyn is fussy, and has to go home. Will you come with me, _glómmung cwén_? Please?"

Wilfled sends her an apologetic look from where she stands a few feet away, a quietly whimpering Blodwyn strapped to her chest, no doubt thinking of Lothiriel's aversion to the cold. But Eofor's expression is so forlorn, so puppy-like, that she cannot refuse him. "Of course, Eofor," she says. "I would be happy to accompany you."

"Be wary," Wilfled says in a low tone when she squeezes her arm in thanks, "he and his merry band of friends are known to start snowball fights big enough to involve the entire city."

Lothiriel, inexperienced in the ways of snow itself, let alone snowball fights, does not intend to partake. But then Eofor claims his team was one member short, that some of the boys' older sisters-a midwife in training and a maid from the hall-were going to play as well, surely she could, too?

So, she does.

Eofor's team is very proud to have her, their _glómmung cwén_ , even when it becomes apparent that she cannot roll a snowball with any sort of speed. Throwing them, however, is a different matter. Soon, the boys devise a system: they roll the balls as quickly as they can and then pass them to her, directing her aim towards members of the opposing team. Victory is theirs, and she awards each boy with a kiss to the cheek. Some make noises of protest, while others had loop back in hopes of another, much to her amusement.

Eofor, though, is not satisfied. "Would you throw one more snowball for me, my lady? That could be my prize, instead of a kiss."

The way his nose wrinkles at the idea of a kiss tells her that a snowball would be much more welcome. "Happily, Eofor. Who shall I aim for?"

Eofor's target is none other than his own father, easily visible by both height and hair from their vantage point. While Eofor rolls the snowball, Eothain moves off, hurrying up the stairs towards the last landing leading down from Meduseld. Lothiriel's heart gives a sudden lurch as it becomes clear who he's moved to talk to: Eomer, wearing a fondly exasperated expression as so many people do when talking to the Mark's captain.

"Oh, no!" Eofor cries, when he finally hands the snowball off to her. "That's too far for you to throw, my lady."

Lothiriel purses her lips, gauging the distance. "I promised you a snowball, Master Eofor. I can manage."

As it turns out, she can't.

The result is one sturdy, cold snowball colliding with the back of the King of Rohan's head.

Eofor makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a gasp; Lothiriel finds she cannot make any sound at all.

Brother and sister turn in unison towards them-dimly, she's aware of Eothain nearly collapsing in laughter behind them. But then she can only see Eomer's expression: thunderous anger morphing into surprise, and then, even more worryingly, a wide grin.

"I think we should run now, my lady," squeaks Eofor, tugging at her hand.

And run they do: Eofor leading her as quickly as he can down the twisting lanes of Rohan's capital. Shopkeepers and other onlookers shout their support as they go-"Quickly, Eofor, he's gaining on you!"-and Lothiriel cannot help the breathless laugh that escapes her. She has not had this much fun in _weeks_.

Eofor tugs her around a corner only to stop short, causing her to nearly bowl him over in their haste. "Eofor, what-Oh, Elbereth."

Eomer stands before them, looking unfairly tall-and handsome, damnably handsome-in the middle of one of the wider lanes. She's seen him in passing, of course, in the weeks since Erchirion had interrupted them-since he'd been close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off of him, to feel the hot brush of his mouth against her palm-but they've scarcely said more than a few words to each other. Erchirion's words had fed her doubts, her worries, and she had let them interfere with her own happiness.

She will not make that mistake again. Not when he gives her a small, private smile before schooling his features into something like sternness. "You do know that an assault upon the King is considered a treasonous offense?"

Eofor flinches and Lothiriel wraps a protective arm around his shoulders. Eomer is teasing, she knows, but Eofor is a child, and has no small amount of hero-worship for his father's dearest friend and king.

"I am the responsible party," she says, forcing back a smile when Eofor's head tips back so he can goggle at her. "Eofor is free from blame."

Eomer's lips twitch, but he nods regally, stepping forward to crook a finger under Eofor's chin. "Is that the way of it, Eofor, son of Eothain?"

Eofor's eyes dart back and forth between them, clearly torn between wanting to avoid trouble and wanting to spare Lothiriel the same. She gives him a tiny nod and he finally manages to squeak a "yes".

"I was afraid of that," Eomer says, and then suddenly he is moving, scooping Lothiriel up in his arms as if she weighs no more than a bit of fluff.

"What are you _doing_?" She manages to cry, attempting to wriggle out of his grasp. "Eomer, someone will _see_ -"

"I hope so," he says, before dumping her into a nearby snowbank.

By the _Valar_ , it was cold and damp and all-together unpleasant! She struggles her way out of it, finally succeeding in freeing her head and one arm, only to find Eofor muffling giggles behind his hands as Eomer smiles benignly down at her.

"Insufferable man!" She grumbles.

"You were the one who hit me with a snowball, _byrnihtu cwén_ ," he says. "This seemed an appropriate punishment."

She ignores the blush that heats her face at the familiar nickname, still trying to extract herself from the snow pile. Eofor says something about finding help, hurrying off back down the lane, leaving them alone. Eomer finally takes pity on her, offering her a hand to help pull herself out of the snow. She allows him to hoist her out with as much dignity as she can muster, scowling at him as he chuckles.

"You look like you've been dusted in sugar," he says.

"Sugar would be a good deal sweeter," Lothiriel answers, "and far less cold."

That takes the mirth from his face. Concern replaces it and suddenly he's brushing the snow from her shoulders, the edges of Eowyn's borrowed cloak. A fierce blush heats her cheeks, especially when his hands run gently through her hair. It is an achingly familiar sensation, from the night of Blodwyn's birth, and she has to force herself not to close her eyes, to sway into his touch, to the comforting warmth of his broad chest.

"I should have remembered how little you like the cold," Eomer says.

She looks up at him, smiling softly. "I do not think I ever told you that."

Her smile only widens as the spots of color in his cheeks darken; Lothiriel does not think she has seen him blush since Minas Tirith, and the sight is utterly, utterly charming. Her hands nearly _itch_ with the effort it takes not to lay them against his face, to see if his cheeks are as warm as they look.

"You did not," he mutters.

"Have you been worrying about me, Eomer King?" She teases.

"Yes," Eomer responds, startling her. "But not because of the cold. You have not been yourself-"

"I know. Erchirion and I argued," she interrupts, cheeks flushing for a much less pleasant reason. "But we have made amends. I will be more cheerful from now on."

His smile is soft, gentle. "Good. Smiling suits you, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth."

She had said the same thing to him, once, and her heart stutters at the realization that he remembers as well.

Eofor skidding back around the corner interrupts them before they can say anything more. Sad as she is about being interrupted, Lothiriel cannot deny that she _is_ cold, and slightly damp.

But Eomer's arm is warm under her hand during the walk back to Meduseld. She is reluctant to release it, even when they make their way inside the hall and Merthwyn scolds them both for being outside for so long.

"And you, my lady! It looks as if you took a swim in a snow drift!"

Lothiriel's eyes flick towards Eomer's, who grins. "She lost a snowball fight, Merthwyn."

The housekeeper tuts in disapproval, forcing Lothiriel onto a bench nearest the fire and stripping the slightly-frozen cloak from her shoulders. It becomes apparent that her hands are too cold for her to remove her own gloves. Merthwyn frowns, all but shoving Eomer onto the bench beside her. "As I suspect you had a hand in this snowball fight, sire, you can make amends by warming the princess's poor fingers."

Their eyes meet, and Lothiriel can read the question there: will she permit it?

It would be no small thing, in Gondor, for a man to touch a lady's hand thus, but she has already been held by him in the depths of sorrow, felt the press of his lips to her palm, and so Lothiriel decides that this can be allowed. They have a chaperone, after all. Eomer's hands are somehow blisteringly warm, closing around hers with a gentleness that makes her chest ache. How foolish she had been, to let Erchirion make her doubt him!

"When you are finished, you had best get yourself into something warm as well, Eomer King," Merthwyn orders. "I shall not be responsible for the King of the Mark having a head cold all through Yule."

Eomer snorts. "Eowyn would skewer me alive if I did anything to upset her planning."

"Skewer you and then serve you as dinner, more likely," Lothiriel agrees. "And me as well, for being involved."

"Eowyn would not harm you for all the world." Her breath leaves her in a rush when he turns one hand over in his, pressing a kiss to its back. A hot bolt of _something_ sings in her veins, from her hand all the way down to her toes, and every place in between. "Nor would I."

Despite the men of Minas Tirith having as much interest in her as a bushell of toadstools, Lothiriel has been flirted with before. Her brothers' friends, lords from neighboring territories, even a number of Alycia's cousins, visiting from Umbar after Alphros's birth. But this does not feel like a flirtation. Or not just that, at least. It feels like a promise. And everything she knows of Eomer tells her that she can trust it. Trust _him_.

The thought curls warm and heady behind her breastbone, and she cannot help but to press his hand, wishing that they were not in such a public venue so she could tell him-show him-how much such a thing means. In fact, it is only Merthwyn's snort of amusement that keeps Lothiriel from doing something extremely foolish, like kissing him in plain view of the entire hall. Eomer shakes himself, clearly as dazed as she is, before releasing her hands to stand.

"Dry clothes now, Eomer King," Merthwyn says, graciously ignoring their embarrassment. "The lady has been sufficiently defrosted."

That pulls a laugh from both of them, and Eomer offers them both one last smile before turning on his heel towards his rooms.

"Oh, look at you, _dopænid_ ," the housekeeper says, chucking Lothiriel lightly under the chin. "Not two minutes ago you were pale with cold, and now your cheeks are rosy enough to light a lamp."

Lothiriel claps her hands to her face, cursing how open her expressions are. "Oh, Merthwyn, is it so obvious as that?"

The older woman smiles. "Do you know what I said to him, the very first time I met you, at the coronation feast? That he could do far worse. But now I think he could do no better."

Lothiriel can feel tears pricking at her eyes. In Gondor, she had hoped that her eventual marriage would have brought an ally in at least her husband, perhaps a sister-in-law, or another nearby lady. Here, she was not even wed-and should be careful not to get ahead of herself, there has been not even a _hint_ of courting breathed to her parents-and had more friends than she knew what to do with, let alone deserved.

"You are too kind, Merthwyn," she says.

"Bledgifu is not the only one who can claim to have mothered him," is her response. "I have known that boy since he was scarcely more than knee-high. Strong-willed always, and serious, so serious once Theoden King made him a marshal. But Vana. That heart! He takes after his mother in that regard, make no mistake. To see him happy would be one of the greatest joys I expect to know."

Lothiriel bites her lip, feeling suddenly shy. And anxious. But if her argument with Erchirion has taught her anything, it is that these fears are more harmful to her own happiness than nearly anything else. So she squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet the older woman's eyes. "And...and you think I could make him so?"

Merthwyn chuckles. "I think you already do."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I'm sure some of y'all are ready to murder me, seeing as how we're now 18 chapters in and still nothing more than a few hand kisses have happened, but I PROMISE: it's coming guys. Pinky swear.

But YES, our two favorite starry-eyed goofballs are FINALLY MOVING FORWARD. Ish. Slowly. Those cloaks are going to be an integral part of the next chapter, and with good reason. We'll also get to see what Yule looks like, both in Rohan and in Gondor. Plus, Faramir will be making an appearance-via letter, but I promise I haven't forgotten about him and Eowyn (my ultimate darlings, honestly).

 **Terms:**  
Céne: the brave, bold, warlike  
Léona: Lion, though it should be noted I am NOT the first to coin this moniker in relation to Eomer; there are a number of talented writers who made this connection well before I did, but they inspired me!  
Dopænid: Duck, duckling


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's** **Note:** Hello again friends! I know this is an unusual day for me to post, but I'm just a TOUCH excited about this chapter, so I couldn't wait to share it with y'all! Thanks, per usual, for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites. They really help me to keep writing :)

This chapter is technically part one of two, so we'll see more of Yule in the Mark in the next chapter as well. Hope y'all enjoy reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it ;)

Onward! Yule has arrived, and with it, presents of all sorts.

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINETEEN**

* * *

The first morning of Yule dawns beautifully bright and terribly cold. Lothiriel has been up since before dawn, yawning before the fire in her room's hearth as she prepares the traditional Gondorian Yule morning meal.

It is not something she has ever had to do on her own, before; in past years she has split the duties between herself, Naneth, and Alycia. Far away as they are, it makes her smile to know that even though they are not together, they are united in this simple, familiar thing.

Erchirion gives a mighty yawn from where he sits in the chair nearest the fire. Eowyn, too, as Faramir's intended, has been persuaded to join them, and even Duilin could not deny Lothiriel's entreaties.

"Why must it be so early?" Eowyn asks, rubbing wearily at her eyes.

"So that we may welcome the season with a full stomach and a happy heart," Lothiriel recites. "If also with tired eyes."

Duilin snorts. "I think the Eorlingas do much the same, but at a much more decent hour."

"You are just out of practice," Lothiriel tuts, passing him a plate.

"Do not let her scold you so," Erchirion says in a loud whisper. "One Yule, our mother had to drag her from her bed, kicking and screaming, in order to make the meal on time."

"I was _six_ ," Lothiriel protests, "and it was not my fault that Amrothos had kept me up late, teasing me about not getting any presents."

"He would not have been able to tease you, if you had not hidden starfish in Hirliun's boots-"

"He deserved it," she says, well aware of the smirks being exchanged between Eowyn and Duilin. "He kept pulling my braid-"

"Diabolical, our cousin is," Erchirion drawls. "For pulling your braid."

Lothiriel huffs, pushing a plate into his hands. "Eat your food and leave me be, 'Chirion."

Her brother merely grins, digging into his food with an appreciative groan. Eowyn regards her own plate with wariness: it is piled high with Dol Amrothian delicacies that Naneth has sent, along with all of the Yule gifts from the rest of their families.

"It will not bite," Lothiriel says, nodding at the shrimp. "It's considered quite good, at home."

"They are Faramir's favorite," Erchirion adds. "Do you remember the Yule he and Boromir got into a wrestling match over the last shrimp?"

"Barely," admits Lothiriel, nibbling on her own food. "I do seem to recall there was biting involved?"

Eowyn chokes out a laugh as Erchirion grins. "Uncle Denethor was mortified. Two Captains of Gondor, squabbling on the floor over shellfish."

"It is not their fault that no one can cook them as well as Naneth can," Lothiriel says with a shrug.

"So there is a morning breakfast, to welcome Yule," Eowyn says, clearly trying to piece together the differences in Gondorian and Rohirric traditions. "And then what?"

"Different foods at the various feasts throughout the twelve days," Erchirion says. "Presents are usually opened in the middle of Yule, though many families choose whichever day is most convenient for them."

"Yule is considered a time for family," Lothiriel adds. "You can give gifts to friends, of course, but they'd be opened later. Sometimes even after the holiday is over."

"Hm," says Eowyn. "It is not so formal in the Mark. Gifts are exchanged by most, and the feasts all happen at night."

"And last well into the morning," Duilin chuckles. "As I suspect tonight's _ādfȳr_ will."

" _Adfȳr_?" Erchirion asks.

Duilin arches an eyebrow in Lothiriel's direction. She chews her lip for a moment, trying to remember the word. "Sacrificial..fire?"

"Yes," Eowyn says. "The whole city gathers in the hall-or tries to, anyways-and we offer the gods a sacrifice of wild boar. Then toasts are made."

"And then drank, I presume," Erchirion chuckles. "I think I will like Yule in Rohan."

Lothiriel rolls her eyes, but does not miss the nervous look that crosses Eowyn's face. She reaches over to take one of her friend's hands in hers. "Eowyn, it will be fine. You have planned too well and too thoroughly for anything else."

"I hope so," Eowyn sighs. "It is silly. I faced down the Witch King, and yet the thought of a Yule feast turning into a disaster makes me nearly ill."

"It will _not_ be a disaster," Lothiriel insists.

Eowyn still looks unconvinced, poking listlessly at her food. Erchirion arches an eyebrow at Lothiriel before nodding to the corner of her room, where the rest of the parcels from Dol Amroth lie, waiting to be opened.

 _Oh,_ Lothiriel thinks, _oh, of course_.

It takes a moment of digging, but eventually she finds what she's looking for: a sealed letter, signed in Faramir's familiar, precise script.

"Mayhaps this will help with your nerves," Lothiriel says, offering the letter. "I was supposed to wait to give it to you until mid-Yule, but-"

Eowyn nearly dumps her plate on Duilin in her haste to take it from Lothiriel's hands. The older man bemoans abuse, but Lothiriel sees a fond smile lurking at the corners of his mouth as Eowyn reads over the letter. She presses a hand to her mouth, clearly holding back a smile, and the blush that fills her cheeks is utterly endearing.

They wait in silence for Eowyn to finish. She's a lovely rosy color by the time she does, reaching gingerly back into the envelope to reveal a ring.

"Faramir says it belonged to his mother," she murmurs in a very soft sort of voice.

"I know he would have liked to be here to give it to you in person," says Lothiriel. "But short of doing that and leaving Minas Tirith in an uproar, this was the best alternative we could think of."

"It signifies both Faramir's love for you and the acceptance of his family," Erchirion explains. "Us, our parents, our brothers. We are honored to share our cousin with you."

"And happy," Lothiriel says, feeling absurdly on the edge of tears as Eowyn stares dazedly back at them, "so, so happy."

Eowyn places the ring securely on her finger before flinging her arms around Lothiriel in a hug. Erchirion sniffs suspiciously behind them, and Duilin's half-hearted grumbles about "sentimental claptrap" sound anything but sincere.

Even with Dol Amroth so far away and the cold of a Rohirric winter seeping in through the windows, Lothiriel feels at home. And with family. A better Yule gift she could never ask for.

* * *

The hall is packed to the brim, but the heat is somewhat lessened by the occasional wafts of cold that drift in when doors are opened. Eomer wishes he were closer to a door, in truth. Between the heavy weight of the ceremonial tunic, the heat radiating out from the great hearth behind him, and the press of the crown he so seldom wears around his forehead, he feels more than a little uncomfortable.

"Steady now, sire," comes Erkenbrand's familiar, soothing voice. "It's just a toast."

Eomer snorts. "It is hardly just a toast, Erkenbrand."

Besides his coronation, it will be the first ceremonial event he will preside over, as king. Last year there had been little cause for celebration, even during Yule. But now...the War was won, the evil defeated. A tentative truce was in place with the Dunlendings, Eowyn betrothed to a good man, the relationship between Gondor and the Mark stronger than ever…

 _And it may soon be stronger yet_ , Eomer thinks, searching for a head of dark hair in the crowd.

She is wedged in between Erchirion and Wilfled, obligingly leaning back so that Eofor can sit in her lap. The boy is too old for such behavior, and certainly has complained enough in the past when Wilfled has tried to keep him still in a similar manner. Contrarily, he looks very comfortable where he sits now, grinning wider every time she reaches up to ruffle his already unruly hair.

Eomer should not be jealous of an eight year old. (And yet.)

"Do stop glaring daggers at my son, Eomer," chirps Eothain, sounding disgustingly smug. "He's as much competition as Gamling, when it comes to your princess."

" _Eothain_ ," he hisses, giving his friend a poisonous look. The hall is too crowded, too full of curious ears, for him to be making remarks like that.

His captain merely shrugs. "I will remind you that _you_ are in charge of the _ādfȳr_. You need only stand up here until you make the toast."

Eomer opens his mouth. Closes it again. Damn him, but Eothain is right. He is the King now, and it falls to him and no one else to begin the Yule celebrations.

As if she has been listening to his thoughts, Eowyn appears, her own golden circlet in place around her brow. She offers him the wassail with an encouraging smile. Taking the goblet in hand, Eomer steps forward. The silence that falls over the hall is nearly instantaneous.

" _Eorlingas, āstandan_!" Cries Gamling. The whole hall rises to their feet, from the smallest child to the most withered old warrior.

Eomer clears his throat. "Hail Bema, Lord of the Forests, for success and victory in the year to come, we ask You!"

 _Hail!_ Answers the hall, voices ringing together as one.

Eowyn steps forward, her voice carrying just as loudly as his: "Hail Vana, Queen of Flowers, for joy and bounty in the year to come, we ask You!"

 _Hail!_ Cries the hall again, some smiling widely; it is no coincidence that Eowyn, only months removed from her wedding, is the one to call upon the goddess of youth and rebirth.

"Hail to our ancestors and departed friends," cries Eothain, voice wavering only the slightest bit, "who are remembered this night. Stay with us in the coming year, we ask you!"

 _Hail!_

"Hail Eomer King, Eomer Eadig!" Erkenbrand says. "May you be blessed with wisdom, a long life-"

"And a good wife!" Someone-who sounds suspiciously like Eothred-yells from the crowd crows.

The hall cheers _hail_ one final time as Eomer reminds himself that overturning a ceremonial mug of wassail over the Second Marshal's head is likely to ruin the mood of the feast. He finds himself suddenly surrounded by well-wishers-friends and strangers alike-all eager to pat his back, shake his hand.

"Enough!" Erkenbrand finally cries, elbowing his way in between Eomer and a particularly eager group of maidens. "Let the king take his place at the table."

Sparing his councilor a grateful look, Eomer all but flings himself down onto the bench. Eowyn beams at him, pressing another mug of wassail into his hands.

"You did wonderfully," she tells him in a low tone. "Uncle would be proud."

The thought makes his chest ache-but it is a good pain, a sweet one.

"He would be proud of _you_ ," he tells her. "All of this is thanks to your hard work."

Eowyn ducks her head, fidgeting absently with a ring Eomer has never seen her wear before.

"What is that?" He asks, nodding at it.

Eowyn blushes. _Blushes_. His fierce little sister, pink in the face and bashful! He has to stop himself from gawking at her, if only because he knows it will only embarrass her further.

"A gift," she says in a private tone, meant for his ears alone. "From Faramir. It..it was his mother's.

"That is no small thing," Eomer murmurs, reaching out to cover her twisting hands with his. "He loves you very much."

Eowyn smiles, then. "And I him. But I am glad to be here, now." She frees one hand from his grip, using it to lift her own glass. "Happy Yule, Eomer."

"Happy Yule, _sweostor_ ," he agrees, clinking their mugs together.

Eothain and Wilfled appear, children in tow, with Lisswyn, Darwyn, and Erchirion trailing along after them. But there is one familiar face Eomer does not see: Lothiriel.

Eothred startles him out of his search by flopping down beside him, flinging an arm around his shoulders. "Happy Yule, sire!"

"Do not think you have escaped punishment," Eomer growls, trying to maneuver out of the older man's grip.

Eothred merely grins, taking a large sip of his own wassail. "Was I wrong to wish you a good wife, Eomer King?"

"I _knew_ that was you," Eowyn says, pinching Eothred's hand where it rests on Eomer's shoulder. "You should have taken my offer to give a toast in the first place, if you were already going to interject."

"I am not one for showing off-"

A loud snort interrupts him; they all turn to look at its source. Duilin stands, Lothiriel on his arm, looking at the Second Marshal with a sharp eye. "If ever there was a man more prone to performance than you, Eothred, son of Eodred, I have yet to meet him."

They all laugh at Eothred's affronted expression. Duilin prods the younger man until he scoots to make room on the bench. Once he's seated himself-Eothred, for all his bluster, respects the Master Healer just as much as the rest of them do-he flaps his hands in Lothiriel's direction.

"Oh, am I permitted to sit now?"

"Yes, girl, if your brother and Captain Eothain there will behoove themselves to give you some space."

They do, and she sits. Eomer is too busy admiring the thick waves of her hair, the all-too distracting neckline of her dress, to realize just where the Master Healer has sat her: directly across from him.

Lothiriel meets his eyes, seemingly coming to the same realization at the same time. The blush that floods her face is familiar and lovely, in the best way.

"Well, boy," Duilin says, clapping a hand to Eomer's shoulder, ruining the moment. "You did well today. I knew those lessons about standing up straight and projecting would pay off, someday."

Eomer groans. "Duilin, please."

"Curved as a question mark, this one was," he continues on, unperturbed. "Always slouching, trying to hide his growth spurts."

"Oh, and those knees!" Eothain crows. "All knob-knees and spindly elbows, but with shoulders as broad as a barn-"

Eomer can feel _his_ face start to heat, the sensation only worsening at Lothiriel's obviously muffled laughter across the table.

"No, no, the worst was that first beard," Eothred chimes in, "patchy in some places, non-existent in others…"

Eomer groans again, letting his head come down to rest on the table with an unkingly _thump_.

"Enough," Eowyn says finally. "You three are terrible."

There is a pause, presumably as Eothred, Eothain, and Duilin shuffle awkwardly in their guilt. (Or so Eomer can hope.)

"Well," comes Lothiriel's voice, wavering traitorously with amusement, "not as terrible as that beard sounds."

He lifts his head to look incredulously at her. Eothain is nearly beside himself with laughter, Eothred not far behind. Wilfled has a hand pressed to her mouth, Lisswyn is clearly biting her lip to keep from joining her brother and uncle. Erchirion looks skyward, likely asking what he has done to be cursed with such a sister, and Eomer can just make out his _own_ sister, whose shoulders are visibly shaking.

Lothiriel merely offers him a wide smile, on the verge of laughter herself.

Is he embarrassed? Yes.

Angry? Not when she looks at him like that.

" _Byrnihtu cwén_ ," he grumbles.

Lothiriel's eyes widen at that and she sucks in a breath of surprise, even as the laughter of their friends continues around them. Puzzled by her reaction, he follows her gaze to Duilin. Duilin, who is turning dark, accusatory eyes on him in a way he hasn't done since Eomer was ten and he and Theodred had overturned an entire vat of coltsfoot brew.

 _Oh, helle_ , Eomer thinks. _He knows_.

The gods must take mercy on him, for the first platters of food arrive, ending the discussion of Eomer's unfortunate teenage years, as well as preventing Duilin from launching into a very public interrogation.

For now.

* * *

Lothiriel does everything in her power to avoid Duilin's gaze as she eats. She distracts herself with sharing tales of Yules past with Erchirion, listens to Eothain's more-than-a-little inappropriate joke about the origins of the Yule Log, leans her chin on her hand to hear Eowyn describe what Aldburg's celebrations are like.

It is not enough.

She turns her head-just once, to answer a question from Eothred-and he has her.

The arched brow nearly disappears under the brim of his cap, but Lothiriel knows that expression. And it means trouble.

 _Though perhaps not for me_ , she thinks, judging by the dark looks he shoots Eomer every time he so much as _breathes_ in her direction.

By some stroke of luck, Duilin's skills are required before dinner ends. Someone in the kitchens has burnt their hand on one of the pots, and the majority of the other healers are unable to be found or otherwise "indisposed".

"Do you need my help?" Lothiriel offers, frowning as Duilin rubs at his back as he stands.

"No, no," he assures her. "I am not so fragile as all that, _byrnihtu cwén_." There is a bite in his voice, at the nickname, and Lothiriel winces even as Eomer turns to look at the Master Healer with narrowed eyes.

"It seems you and I need to have a talk, boy," Duilin says in a low tone; Lothiriel has to strain to hear him, but judging by the increased ire on Eomer's face, he does not.

"I have done nothing to require a _scolding_ -" He starts to say, temper clearly rising.

On instinct, Lothiriel stretches her leg out and presses her foot against Eomer's.

 _Stop_ , she thinks, desperately, _stop, he is only worried, he only wants to understand_.

Eomer freezes, eyes darting back towards hers. Whatever emotion is on her face, it must be enough to convince him to calm himself, for he turns back towards Duilin with a much more controlled expression. "Tomorrow morning?"

"Early," Duilin agrees. "Before the morning meal."

"Fine," Eomer says.

Duilin departs with one last searching look in her direction.

The rest of the table has either dissolved into their own conversations or wandered off to parts unknown, leaving her with no other choice but to meet Eomer's eyes.

"Would you care to explain," he asks quietly, "why I may be drowned in Duilin's best cauldron come tomorrow morning?"

Lothiriel sighs, pressing a hand to her face. "He is my mentor. And a friend. And knows the most about Rohirric traditions when it comes to," oh _Valar_ , this is mortifying, and she drops a voice to a whisper, "courting."

Eomer stares at her for a moment. Lothiriel knows she has blushed in his presence dozens-well, perhaps hundreds, at this point-of times, but now she feels closer to spontaneous combustion, with how hot her face feels.

His sudden smirk startles her, but not nearly as much as the gentle nudge of his foot against hers-Elbereth, why had she not moved yet?

"You talked to Duilin," he murmurs, "about courting?"

"I-In a sense," she stutters, fidgeting nervously with the napkin in her lap. "I was...confused, and he was already teaching me about the language, and I knew he would not pry the way Wilfled would, or meddle like Eowyn-"

"And why would you be interested in the courting traditions of the Mark?" Eomer interrupts.

Her head snaps up in alarm. He looks far too detached, far too calm, while she feels as if her heart is trying to beat out of her chest. Oh, _Elbereth_! What if she has misread him, misread it all, allowed Eowyn and Wilfled and Eothain convince her that she is seeing something that is simply not there-

Eomer's mouth twitches.

He is-the insufferable man is _teasing her_.

She kicks him, swiftly, and feels a rush of satisfaction as he hisses a surprised curse under his breath.

"You are not funny," she whispers.

He merely grins, startling her again when his foot unerringly finds hers under the table once more. "Would it comfort you to know that it was likely much more awkward for me when I found myself asking your brother about Gondorian courting traditions?"

She had guessed that already, given Erchirion's comments, but it is another thing entirely to hear it confirmed, by Eomer's own admission. "I suppose so," she murmurs, fighting back another blush.

Eomer's hand twitches where it rests on the table and-and she is not sure how she knows, but she does, that were they not at a crowded table, with meddling friends and curious strangers all around, he likely would have reached for her hand. Unable to stop herself, she curls her foot further against his, hooking the toe of her boot around the back of his. They are barely touching, separated by shoes and warm woolen socks, and yet her breath catches anyways.

His eyes are darker than ever, bearing into hers with the same intensity they had in the stables, in the alleyway behind Eothain and Wilfled's house. His voice is low, private, and that same, shuddery feeling snakes up her spine again. "Would you permit being courted?"

 _Yes, yes, of course, yes_ dances on the tip of her tongue, but she thinks of his teasing and forces herself to looks serious. "If you paid attention to what my brother told you of Gondor's traditions, you would know that any noblewoman requires her parents' permission for such a thing."

"I do not ask because of your rank," is his quick response, "and I do not ask because of your parents, or your country. I am asking if it is what _you_ want."

It is, perhaps, the most romantic thing that's ever been said to her, made all the more potent by the way their legs are quite nearly tangled together underneath the table. What else can she say, except the truth? "Yes," she says, unable not to smile. "Yes, of course it is."

His returning smile is near as boyish as Eofor's and _Valar_ , if she doesn't want to reach over, to twine her fingers in his. Her smile stretches so wide it nearly hurts, but she cannot help herself-she is just so _happy_.

"What are you two over here grinning about?" Asks Eothain, causing them both to jump.

"It is Yule, Eothain," Lisswyn says softly, "we all have many things to be happy for."

Lothiriel looks over at the older woman, who offers her a knowing look before turning her attention back to Erchirion, who is listening intently to whatever pieced-together-story Darwyn is attempting to tell him in her childish Westron.

Merthwyn appears, declaring that Lothiriel absolutely _must_ help the other women decorate the Yule wreath, and one of the councilors-Baldred, if Lothiriel is remembering correctly-pounces on the opportunity to claim Eomer's attention. She can hardly give the real reason she's so reluctant to leave her seat, so she allows herself to be led away.

The Yule wreath is lovely, and the welcome the other women give her is heartening, but she has a hard time focusing on the task before her. How can she? How can she possibly think of anything else-that he had asked her for _her_ , for her opinion, her wants-

"Lothiriel?" Comes Cwenhild's concerned voice. "Vana bless you, child, but I think the wassail has gone to your head."

"Hm?" Lothiriel asks dazedly.

"Do not fret, Cwenhild," Eowyn says with a grin, passing another evergreen branch in the older woman's direction. "Rosy cheeks are quite standard for Lothiriel. Certainly not a sign of over-indulging."

The surrounding women laugh and Lothiriel blushes deeper, reaching up to cover said-traitorous cheeks with her hands.

She is not sure how they manage it, but she catches Eomer's eyes at the same moment. The damned man _winks_ at her, and Lothiriel gives thanks to every god she can think of that she is already so flushed.

"Insufferable man," she mutters, turning her full attention back to the wreath.

And yet, hours later, she is still smiling as she curls under her blankets to go to sleep.

* * *

His guardsmen give him curious looks when he leaves his rooms a good two hours earlier than he normally does. The fires are still burning low in the hall from the revelry the night before, with a few stragglers snoring on benches or curled on the more sturdy rugs.

Eomer envies them; he had tried to leave the feast as early as possible, but every time he had made even the smallest motion towards an exit, another councilor had appeared, wanting his opinion on one thing or another. As such, he is about to face Duilin with only a handful of hours of sleep under his belt. Facing the Master Healer under the best of circumstances requires all of his wits, and he's fairly certain he's left most of them behind on his pillow.

Duilin is waiting for him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. "Don't let all the heat out, boy, get inside," he orders, as if Eomer has personally brought this cold weather down upon him.

Eomer is scarcely surprised to see the sight that greets him: a large pestle and mortar stands waiting on the table closest the fire, with a veritable bushel of herbs waiting to be ground up. It is an old punishment of the healer's, usually invoked when he and Eowyn-and more rarely, Theodred-had gotten into some sort of mischief as children. He's also less than surprised that Duilin does not speak for quite some time, choosing instead to putter around the shop muttering to himself as he goes.

Eomer dutifully begins grinding the herbs, waiting for the inevitable lecture. The silence remains, so he lets his mind wander to more pleasant things. Eowyn's happy laughter, her obvious pride in how the feast had turned out. The sight of Eofor cautiously rocking Blodwyn on his knee, under the watchful gaze of Eothain and Wilfled. The press of Lothiriel's foot against his own, the catch in her voice when she'd said _yes, of course_ -

"You are lucky I am too old to give you a proper whipping, boy," Duilin says suddenly, jerking him from his musings.

Eomer blinks. Puts the pestle down before turning to face the older man. "What?"

Duilin simply glares. "You know precisely _what_ , Eomer, son of Eomund, greatest idiot in all of Rohan! Calling that girl _byrnihtu cwén_! Turning her head with no promise of courting her-she is a _princess_ , and too tender-hearted to deserve such treatment-"

"Duilin-"

"No! King or not, I will speak my peace. Have you forgotten everything your uncle ever taught you? If you think there will be no repercussions for this because you have become the Riddermark's most eligible bachelor, you are in for a nasty surprise-"

" _Duilin_ -"

"And of all the women to choose! Lothiriel of Dol Amroth! Cousin to your sister's betrothed! Even worse that she is a good, sweet girl, worthy of courting-"

"I know that!" Eomer finally succeeds in interrupting. His outburst forces Duilin into silence. "I am well aware of her virtues, Duilin, and her rank as a princess of Gondor-"

"And yet-"

"-which is why," Eomer growls, gritting his teeth, "I asked her if she would permit me to court her. Last night."

The look of open-mouthed shock on the healer's face would be comical, were Eomer not so annoyed. First Erchirion, now Duilin-he is not sure what he has done to give anyone the impression that this was a mere _dalliance_ , or that he intends to vanish into the wilderness with Lothiriel's good reputation in his pocket. But it rankles, to be thought so poorly of, especially by a man who has known him since infancy!

"Merciful Valar," Duilin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have been listening to her fret over her 'not-suitor' for _weeks_ now, and now you tell me you have asked to court her?"

"What sort of man do you take me for, Duilin?" Eomer hisses. "I am no scoundrel!"

The older man's face softens. "No, no you are not. I did not mean to imply it. But what was I to think? She says she is not being courted, that the man she has a fancy for calls her a 'prickly princess', and then she was out of sorts for days. Would you not be concerned, if Eowyn had told you something similar?"

Eomer frowns. If Eowyn had told him anything resembling the picture Duilin has just painted, Faramir would likely have found himself dangling from the highest tower in Minas Tirith.

"You have a point," he grudgingly admits. "But, Bema, Duilin, what have I done to deserve such censure?"

Duilin snorts at that. "Calling a woman you would make your Queen 'prickly', for one. Not announcing your intentions from the start, for another."

"I did not have intentions from the start," he says. "The first time I met her, I nearly threw her out of Eowyn's sickroom."

"Charming," Duilin quips. "What changed?"

Eomer cannot stop the smile that pulls the corners of his mouth up. "You have met Lothiriel, haven't you?"

"She does have that effect, little aware of it as she is," Duilin murmurs. "She did not even know what _glommung cwen_ meant until I told her, and even then she still worried that the people would not accept her." He turns, eyeing Eomer. "While her agreeing to be courted is proper by Rohan's standards, I doubt very much that anyone in Gondor would consider that enough."

"I already spoke to Erchirion," Eomer says. "I know there are differences, in what is acceptable here and in Dol Amroth."

"Then you should also know that courtships are much more serious things, in Gondor," Duilin says. "They are closer to what we consider a betrothal here."

Eomer assumed as much. It changes nothing.

"And," he says, with a worryingly wry grin, "that Gondorian standards of what level of affection can be allowed between a courting couple are rather...strict."

Eomer recalls _that_ particular difference from watching Eowyn and Faramir's restraint around each other. It had not seemed such an ill thing then, but now…

"Meaning?" He asks.

Duilin smirks. "You'll need a chaperone if you want to speak to the lady alone. Any and all presents must be approved by a family member before they can be given," the healer ignores Eomer's groan of dismay, continuing on with, "and as far as physical affection goes, anything beyond a kiss on the hand is considered entirely too forward."

"Bema, how does anyone wind up married in that country, with rules like that in place?" Eomer grumbles.

"The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized," quotes Duilin, patting his shoulder. "Do you think you are up to the challenge?"

He's left to ponder that question when Duilin's first appointment of the day appears, forcing him to trudge through the still-falling snow towards the hall with the discussion unfinished. The last of the stragglers from the night before have been cleared out, and the morning crowd has begun to fill Meduseld with voices and laughter.

Eowyn and Lothiriel are seated near the fire, talking animatedly about something. The smile she gives him as he passes warms him to the backbone, better than any ale.

 _Whatever challenge, whatever rules_ , he thinks. _It will be worth it._

It does not hurt to remind himself that while Lothiriel is Gondorian, he is not. And the courting customs of the Mark-infinitely preferable as they are-could likely be made use of, too.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ok folks, tons to upack here, so let's begin!

Gondor's Yule traditions are a mishmash of my own creation and a number of medieval Yule practices. Shellfish is a popular Christmas meal in many places, and given that much of our current Christmas practices tie directly to Yule ones, I couldn't think of a better way to highlight Dol Amroth's link to the sea. (Yes, I realize shrimp probably wouldn't be the most fresh after a journey from Dol Amroth to Edoras, but shhh this is fiction. We're rolling with it.)

Rohan's Yule is based more decidedly around Anglo-Saxon traditions, especially the toasts, which are modified from actual Yule toasts still used today. Also, you'll notice that Yule is nowhere near over: it lasts 12 days (which inspired what popular Christmas song? I'm sure y'all can guess) which means there's PLENTY O'TIME for more presents, feasts, and flirting. Though only two of those things are actual Yule practices ;)

As far as courting goes, Gondor's practices are based on "courtly love", made popular in the 12th century by Eleanor of Aquitaine and a few others. Rohan's are older, more lax, and encourage a couple to fully establish if they're compatible before agreeing to marriage.

On a character note: I will let y'all's reaction tell me what you think of our favorite pair's interaction this chapter ;)


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** Sorry again for the delay, folks! The holiday season is quickly approaching and it's a bit of a busy time for us at work. And this chapter would just NOT COOPERATE-Yule was only supposed to be two chapters, but thanks to a certain two characters running away with some extra fluff (oh, darn), it's turning into a bit of a three-parter.

Thank you AGAIN (as always) for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites! It really does make sharing this story that much more joyful for me :)

Per usual, break down of a few things from this chapter in the ending Author's Notes. Now, onward! More Yule celebrations and those pesky cloaks FINALLY get exchanged ;)

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY**

* * *

The first week of Yule whirls by in nights of packed with feasting, mornings full of aching heads and regret. But through it all: joy. Happiness. Warmth by every hearth, friendship in every heart. After all the suffering his people have seen, both during the War and before it, they have earned this season of peace, this respite from worry, however short it may be.

It's thoughts of these things that Eomer repeats to himself, over and over, as he paces back and forth in Erchirion's rooms. Today-the seventh day of Yule-is the traditional day of gift giving, in Gondor, and at Duilin's less-than-gentle instruction, he has reluctantly presented the cloak to the Prince for inspection.

 _Inspection_. The very word makes him want to tear at his hair.

"You are giving me a headache, boy, with all that pacing," grumbles Duilin, reaching out a leg to kick at Eomer's knee. "Sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet."

Irritably, he does, flinging himself into the chair opposite the Master Healer's with a groan. "I do not understand why this is such a damned _long_ process."

"Because the prince is likely toying you with a little," Duilin says, his smirk evident. "Another Gondorian tradition, though unspoken. You must test a man who courts, to see what his intentions are."

"Test-" Eomer starts, irritation growing. His anger is cut short by Erchirion emerging from the adjoining room, cloak in hand. The other man's face pulls into a grin when he spies the tracks his pacing has left on the carpet.

"Nervous, Eomer King?" He asks. "That's a good sign."

Duilin snorts. Eomer reminds himself that punching Edoras' Chief Healer and a Prince of Gondor is unlikely to encourage _any_ woman to want to marry him, let alone one who holds them both in such high regard as Lothiriel does.

"It's somewhat of an unconventional gift," Erchirion continues on, unaware of the fleeting danger he'd been in, "but I cannot deny it suits her much better than the usual jewelry or flowers any other courting man would have chosen."

"Any other _Gondorian_ man, you mean," Duilin chimes in helpfully. "There may yet be more Rohirric swains for you to fight off, prince."

Eomer bristles at that; he is no fool, he has seen how some of his riders-both local and visiting-have looked at her, but to think-!

"I doubt that," Erchirion answers. "Perhaps it is not Gondorian tradition to take a lady's opinion into consideration, but I will have to fail tradition, on this account." He turns to give Eomer a warm smile, holding the cloak out to him. "And there is no other man she would consider, Rohirric or otherwise."

Eomer takes the cloak in a daze, willing himself not to blush like a wet-behind-the-ears _boy_.

"Well, she could scarcely do better than a king, anyways," Duilin says, earning himself a black look.

Erchirion chuckles. "You'll have to forgive me in saying that Eomer is the one who could do no better," he emphasizes this statement with a mostly gentle pat to Eomer's shoulder. "Though I do suffer from a brother's bias."

Dulin snorts again. "Aye, you do. Though I must say, your choice of a gift is interesting in more ways than one, Eomer."

Steeling himself for some comment on its informal nature, its lack of value-in Gondor, perhaps, though the furs lining the collar would be haggled over for _hours_ in any Rohirric market-Eomer arches an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

It's Erchirion who answers, with a wide grin. "Did I forget to mention my sister has a gift for you as well?"

Eomer blinks, stunned. It is normal for courting couples to exchange gifts, of course, but that Lothiriel had already thought to give him a _máþþumgifu_ without knowing of his own…

"What is it?" He asks, dimly.

Erchirion's grin only widens. "If I told you, I am afraid she would skin me alive. You will have to wait until the afternoon to see for yourself."

"Steady now, boy," Duilin cautions, mirth evident in every tone. "I doubt you want to go into the council meeting looking as if you've been walloped over the head with a stick."

That forces a chuckle out of him and he rubs the back of his neck. "No, that would not do. Baldred and Eothred would turn the entire council on its head if given half the chance."

"Meeting first," Erchirion chirps, with another brotherly pat to his shoulder, "presents later."

* * *

Eowyn seems more nervous about hosting the small group of their friends and family in her rooms than she had about the entirety of Edoras in the great hall. The sight of her pacing back and forth, adjusting and readjusting the chairs, poking at the fire, making a show of arranging the assembled presents together is both endearing and somewhat headache-inducing.

"Eowyn, enough!" Lothiriel finally cries, taking her friend's hands and all but shoving her into the closest chair. "It looks wonderful."

"That is easy enough for you to say," Eowyn grumbles. "You have planned Gondorian Yule celebrations for _years_ -"

"And I will say again," Lothiriel interrupts, smiling, "this sort of Gondorian Yule celebration is just for kith and kin. Meaning everyone who comes through your door is going to be happy to be there, regardless of what the room looks like." Even so, she gestures at the merrily crackling fire, the wonderful smelling Yule wreaths, the sprig of mistletoe above the door. "As it is, it's lovely. My mother herself could have done no better."

Eowyn swats her for that, even as her cheeks pink. "You exaggerate."

"Perhaps a little," Lothiriel teases. "Naneth would not have to bank the fire so high, as Dol Amroth does not suffer from these ghastly winters the way Edoras does-"

Eowyn flings a pillow at her, laughing. "The fire is only so warm for _your_ benefit, Princess Coldfeet!"

Lothiriel throws the pillow back at her, giggling herself, and that is how Eothain, Wilfled, and Lisswyn find them, red faced and laughing, as if they are girls of twelve instead of women grown.

"What is this?" Eothain asks. "Does Gondor intend to wage war through its princess? And on the sister of the king, no less!"

"Hm, who shall we side with, Blodwyn?" Wilfled murmurs. "Your _cumendre_ or the White Lady?"

Blodwyn's very eloquent gurgle has little meaning to Lothiriel, but Wilfled nods solemnly, coming to stand at her side. "It is decided then."

"Traitors!" Cries Eothain dramatically, slinging an arm around Eofor's shoulders. "We shall not prove so treacherous to the Mark, shall we, Eofor?"

"No, _Fæder_ ," the boy giggles.

As if on cue, Erchirion appears. He takes in the scene before grinning widely.

"A battle during Yule?" He asks. "I thought it was only ever Amrothos responsible for those."

"Amrothos is not here," Lothiriel says. "I thought someone should do the honors."

"Perhaps we should refrain from battle entirely," Lisswyn interjects, smiling. "Or I fear we shall not get to p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s and then I will never know peace."

Darwyn furrows her brow, clearly confused, until Eofor blurts, "Yes, yes, presents!" Then the little girl's face lights up and she wiggles out of her mother's arms before hurrying over to the pile of gifts near the corner.

"Darwyn, I doubt those are all for you," Eothain chuckles.

"No doubt she wants them to be!" Eothred chimes in, appearing in the doorway. He intercepts his great-niece before she can do more than tug at the nearest wrapped item, and kisses away her stormy frown before she begins to cry.

"You are missing something, Eothred," complains Eowyn. "Or rather, someone."

"His Royal Grouchiness will be along shortly," Eothred explains. "He was tasked with collecting Master Duilin, something I do not envy him for."

"Duilin only antagonizes you because you let him, Uncle," Lisswyn says.

"Duilin antagonizes everyone," Lothiriel corrects with a laugh. "It is merely the most entertaining for him to watch Eothred turn the same color as his hair."

Eothred splutters in mock-outrage at that, and the resulting laughter heralds Duilin and Eomer's arrival. Both are covered in a fine dusting of snow, and Eomer's arms are laden down with a number of parcels that she suspects that he was talked (forced) into carrying by the elderly Master Healer. His expression is...less than pleased, though whether from cold or from the weight of the items he carries, Lothiriel could not say. She has to hide a smile behind her hand. _His Royal Grouchiness indeed_.

"Do not stop on our account," Duilin quips, "Eomer's frown will defrost once he spends some time near the fire."

That starts another round of laughter, even as Erchirion steps forward to rescue the gifts from his arms, and Eowyn helps peel her brother's cloak from his shoulders. Lothiriel does the same for her teacher, shaking her head at the man's mischievous grin.

"You are supposed to be well-behaved during Yule, Master Healer," she scolds.

"Tch," he tuts, "a bit of teasing is unlikely to hurt your not-roguish suitor, girl."

She swats him, flushing crimson, and pointedly ignores his answering snort. Mercifully, the rest of the room is too busy bustling to and fro to have heard Duilin's less-than-subtle comment. She and Erchirion have been explaining the Gondorian tradition when it comes to presents to the entire group for nigh a week now, and it appears they have been paying attention. Eofor and Darwyn-with Eothred's help-eagerly push the assembled gifts into a pile at their respective recipient's feet. Eowyn has begun to pass out the spiced ale out. She sends Lothiriel a wink; they'd had quite the time making it, two nights previously, both of their hair ending up smelling like orange peel and thyme, cheeks flushed from the heat and the number of samples Merthwyn had insisted they take.

Once the ale and the presents have been divvied out, they all settle into their respective seats. Grouped by families, Lothiriel cannot help the overwhelming swell of fondness in her breast, just from looking at all of them. Her friends. Her second family.

Lisswyn bounces Darwyn on her knee as Eothain makes faces at her, while Wilfled looks down fondly at where Eofor and Eothred are inspecting her son's pile of gifts-Blodwyn is sleeping sweetly, oblivious to it all. Eowyn and Eomer, more alike than ever in the warm light of the fire, are both groaning good-naturedly as Duilin lectures them on the properties of some herb or another.

She thinks of her own family, back in Dol Amroth. She misses them, of course, and the familiar sound of Amrothos's laughter, Elphir's singing voice, so rarely used, the sight Alycia's wide smile. Alphros's weight, warm and trusting, as he snuggles into her shoulder. Naneth and Ada, at ease and happy, as their children trade presents and teasings alike.

Oh, but how could she forget Pippin? And dear Merry, soft-spoken Sam, and Frodo-she wonders what Yule looks like in the Shire. Lothiriel suspects it involves a lot of food.

And Aragorn and Arwen-and she cannot neglect Legolas either, or Gimli, with his big belly-laughs and twinkling eyes.

 _How lucky am I, to have so many to be thankful for? But if only I could have them all together, just for an hour_. _All the people I love best in this world,_ she thinks. _That would be the perfect Yule_.

"Lothiriel?" Comes Erchirion's voice, pulling her from her musings. "Are you well?"

She turns, offering him a smile. Her dearest brother, her little piece of home. "I am very well." She leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Happy Yule, 'Chirion."

He grins, pressing a kiss of his own to her forehead. "Happy Yule, Lothiriel."

"Can we open presents now?" Eofor asks, causing them all to laugh.

"So impatient!" Eothain teases, poking his son's stomach.

"Well," says Wilfled, "he is your son, after all."

"How do we go about this?" Asks Eothred from where he's currently sprawled across one of the rugs. "Just all dive in at once?"

"Hardly!" Cries Eowyn. "We open in order of age." She flicks a glance in Lothiriel's direction. "Yes?"

"Yes," Lothiriel agrees. "Gondorian Yule opening celebrations can take quite some time, and the little ones may need n-a-p-s."

Eofor's face twists at that. "I won't! I am not little, like Darwyn and Blodwyn!"

"There is no shame in needing rest, Eofor," Eomer says, reaching over to give the boy's hair a ruffle. "I think I would like nothing better than to be given permission for a few extra hours of sleep."

"Nothing better, eh?" Says Duilin, in a dangerous sort of tone. "Then I suppose a certain gift can be returned to my shop, then-"

If she had not seen it herself, Lothiriel would never have believed that Eowyn would actually resort to kicking the elderly man in the shin, but she does, and the room dissolves into laughter once more at his outraged yelp.

"Blodwyn first, then?" Eothain asks. "I suppose she's permitted some aid, _glómmung cwén_?"

"Aid away, Eothain the gallant," she teases.

Blodwyn's first present is a carved rocking horse-a joint effort between Eothred and Eomer, apparently, both whom blush furiously when Wilfled tears up in gratitude.

"It is wonderful," she sniffs.

"Look, _glómmung cwén_ ," Eofor cries, "I won't have to wait til Blodwyn is so big to teach her to ride!"

That lightens the mood, and the rest of the baby's presents-a blanket from Eowyn, four pairs of knitted socks from Lothiriel, and a number of herbs to help ease the pain when her teeth began to come in from Duilin, are quickly unwrapped.

"Oh, there's one more," Lothiriel says, plucking the box off of the hearth. "It's from my sister-in-law. Alycia. She's just had a daughter as well, you see, and she wanted to send something…"

She twists a strand of hair around her finger, anxiously, as Wilfled opens the small box. Blodwyn, recently awakened by Eofor's gentle prodding, peers down at it alongside her mother.

"Oh, Lothiriel," Wilfled gasps, "I have never seen anything so fine."

She passes the box off to Eothain, who removes the item from within with the utmost care. The rattle-wrought in silver, in the shape of a flower-looks comically small between his fingers.

"I told her about your prayers to Vana," Lothiriel says in a quiet voice, "and about Blodwyn's name. I hope...I hope it is fitting."

"Aye," Eothain answers hoarsely, offering it to Blodwyn, who grasps it with a toothless grin. "More than fitting, Lothiriel."

Wilfled slips over to kiss her cheek as Darwyn tears eagerly into her own presents-the first being a tiny pair of riding boots, from Eothred-and Eothain manages to give her braid an affectionate tug when Eofor drags her from her seat, demanding her help unwrapping one of his presents: a wooden sword.

"I suspect your sister-in-law had help with her choice of gift," comes a low voice near her ear, and Lothiriel jumps, turning to meet Eomer's gaze.

"Perhaps a little," she says, smiling. He looks as relaxed as she's ever seen him, sprawled across the chair with a mug of spiced ale in hand. His hair is more golden than ever in the firelight glow, his face soft with contentment. But Elbereth, those eyes! Dark, and hot, and she can almost feel them slide over her like a caress when she twists a little to settle herself more comfortably at the foot of his chair.

 _So close and still so far_ , she thinks, suddenly wanting nothing more than to rest her cheek on his knee, to feel the gentle pull of his fingers in her hair.

 _Next Yule, you could do just that,_ a little voice in her head mutters, _all that and more_.

She's so flustered by the thought that it takes Eowyn calling her name three times to clear her head, and she meets the room's stares with a sheepish look.

"Perhaps it is not only the little ones who will need n-a-p-s," teases Eothain. "Where were you just now, _glómmung cwén_?"

"A dream," she admits, "a very good dream."

"Well, wake up," barks Duilin. "It is your turn to open your gifts, girl."

* * *

Eomer can feel Erchirion and Duilin's eyes on him as Lothiriel begins to unwrap her gifts. There is a vial of something sweet smelling from her sister-in-law, a new sturdy leather satchel from Eowyn, a thick woolen hat from Wilfled and Eothain-who insist on her putting it on, and promptly dissolve into laughter at the sight of her, flushed and grinning, hair askew-and a book from Faramir, sent on Erchirion's behalf.

Her mother has sent her a pair of delicate silver earrings and Lothiriel's eyes dart in his direction, her lip caught in her teeth; they're in the same shape as the shell necklace around his neck, and he can't help but give the pendant a twist, if only to watch her blush once more.

"I think that pile is missing something rather important," Duilin mutters, "did the walk from my shop give you cold feet, boy?"

Erchirion's arched eyebrow indicates he's thinking something similar.

"I was under the impression," Eomer says in a low tone, "that courting gifts were between the people courting. Not the entire group of their meddling friends and family."

Duilin frowns. "Is it not a Yule gift?"

"It _was_ ," Eomer concedes, "until the prince agreed that I might," at this he frowns, damning Gondorian propriety for what feels like the thousandth time in the past week, " _appropriately woo_ his sister. Yule presents would not have to be examined by a lady's chaperone."

Erchirion shakes his head, but there's no missing the smile on his face. "You've done your research. I should have expected that."

Actually, it had been Eowyn who had done the research, barrelling into his room not two mornings before and all-but shoving a thick, Gondorian book under his nose, opened to a page about courting customs.

Eomer thinks it's probably wise not to reveal this, so he merely offers both men a smug grin.

"You are so like your father," Duilin grumbles, poking him rather viciously in the arm, "dragging your feet for months about courting the girl, and then trying to weasel your way past tradition-"

"I hardly have thrown Lothiriel over my horse and ridden off into Fangorn with her," Eomer protests. "And by all accounts, my mother _wanted_ to be kidnapped."

"I will ask you to refrain from spiriting my sister off," Erchirion says, face stern but amusement bleeding through in every tone. "Though, I suppose I will have to permit you the standard allowance that is your due for giving her a courting gift."

Eomer's brow furrows; he hadn't gotten to that part in the book. "Which is?"

Duilin snorts. "Didn't get to the end of that chapter, eh? A courting couple is permitted a moment alone to exchange gifts, assuming the lady's chaperone has approved of both man and present."

 _Helle_ , if Eomer had known about _that_ particular rule, he would have forced Erchirion into inspecting the cloak the minute it had been finished!

"And no one thought to mention this to me?" He asks.

Erchirion's grin only widens, making him look disturbingly like Amrothos. "Well, you did not ask."

Duilin guffaws loudly, drawing the attention of the rest of the room.

"You three are being quite rude!" Wilfled says, fixing them with the sort of look that only motherhood seems to bring. "Quit whispering to one another and join us in watching Eowyn open her gifts."

The three men share a vaguely guilty look before dutifully complying. Eowyn's gifts are lovely, and well-suited to her-there is much cooing from the other women when Faramir's letter is opened, revealing a few potential designs for their wedding marks-but Eomer watches it all in a daze.

A moment alone to exchange gifts...it goes against everything he has learned thus far about Gondorian tradition and propriety. He's hardly complaining, only...only he had not thought to have such a thing, and has not prepared for it in the slightest. Of course they've been alone before, but not since she'd accepted, since they'd acknowledged-Bema, what was he supposed to say to her? _All of Edoras seems to know how susceptible you are to the cold, so I had a cloak made for you to as a token of my affection?_

It sounds stilted and awkward, even within the confines of his own head.

"Eomer?" Eowyn's hand is pressing gently at his elbow, her face turned upward towards his own. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he snaps, wincing at the bewildered look she gives him. "I am sorry, Eowyn-"

Eowyn's eyes flash from his face towards Erchirion's amused expression and back again. "You didn't finish the chapter."

"I thought I had covered the important parts," he admits, drawing an exasperated sigh from his sister.

"Typical man," she mutters. "I would have thought you would be pleased at the idea of a moment alone with Lothiriel." At this, mischief enters her expression. "Though I suppose you have already had more than what this gift will earn you-"

" _Eowyn_ -"

"Your secret is safe with me, brother," she says, giving his cheek a less-than-gentle pat. "And do not look the gift-horse in the mouth. It is not as if you have had any difficulty speaking to her before now."

Eomer will admit this is true-not since the first month of their acquaintance has he felt awkward in Lothiriel's presence. There is no reason to start now.

Still, he helps himself to another mug of spiced ale as Wilfled opens her gifts, to better calm his nerves.

The rest of the afternoon passes without significant incident-Eothain does nearly shed a tear at the new saddle Lisswyn and Wilfled had made for him, and Eomer himself is more than a little misty-eyed at the unexpected gift sent by Faramir and the rest of Lothiriel's family: a signet ring of Theodred's, apparently found in a drawer in Boromir's rooms-and quite suddenly, all of the gifts have been opened. Eowyn begins reminding everyone that they would all be needed in the Great Hall soon, for the night's feast.

Something very akin to _panic_ grips him as the room starts to empty; it is only a gentle touch from her brother that stops Lothiriel from following Wilfled and Lisswyn out the door.

"Erchirion?" He can hear her ask. "Is something the matter?"

"You've a _máþþumgifu_ to open yet, girl," comes Duilin's voice instead. "Care to see what it is?"

Eothain and Eothred stop stock-still in the doorway, turning in eerie unison to grin at him.

"Out," Eowyn orders, shooing uncle and nephew-and mercifully, Duilin as well-from the room. "It is not a spectacle, and should not be treated as such."

Eomer groans, burying his head in his hands. " _Damn_ Duilin."

"He is remarkably meddlesome," Erchirion says. "I like him."

The press of someone's hand forces him to look up and he nearly flinches to find Lothiriel standing there, looking as uncomfortable as he feels. She offers him a soft smile before turning an unhappy expression on her brother. "Courting gifts are exchanged _alone_ , Erchirion."

"Which is why the two of you will be using Eowyn's solar, just through there," he answers. "And we will wait here, close by."

 _Chaperoning_ , Eomer thinks, and frowns.

The sudden tug of her hand in his pulls him from his frustration, and any lingering irritation he feels at Duilin's meddling, Erchirion's knowing look, is wiped away by the sight of her, blushing and eager.

"I have something for you, too," she admits, squeezing her fingers around his. "Come with me?"

 _Anywhere_ , he thinks, absurdly enough, but he lets himself be pulled along into Eowyn's solar, and resolutely ignores his sister's near face-splitting grin when he pulls the door shut behind them.

Lothiriel laughs, suddenly, startling him even more when she reaches up to press a soft hand against his cheek. "Oh, your poor face. I am glad not to be the only one blushing, for once."

He cannot help but huff a grudging chuckle at that. "Your blushes are far more becoming than mine. Eothain used to call me _bæl hléor_ , when we were children."

"Flame face," she laughs. "I shall have to make use of that."

"I would rather you didn't," he says, but in truth, the old nickname would not sting as much, coming from her. It is hardly as if she does not suffer from a similar problem.

She gives one last laugh before dropping her hand. Anxiety creeps into her expression and she twists a strand of hair around her finger. "I confess I am rethinking your present. It seemed a good idea at the time, but after seeing all of the other gifts everyone has received it seems...dull."

Privately, Eomer suspects she could have given him a jar of dirt and he would have found something to like about it. But _that_ is a thought so infused with infatuation that he dare not voice it aloud. He takes her hands in his before she can twist any more of her hair, running his thumbs over their backs. "I think I should be the judge of that," he says.

Lothiriel ducks her head, but not before he sees a smile tug at her lips. "Be my guest then, oh king."

Someone had put both of their gifts-he suspects Eowyn-on the small desk, and he makes a show of examining it, even lifting the package to his ear and giving it a shake.

"Insufferable man," Lothiriel cries, but she's smiling. "Open it and put me out of my misery."

All earlier nervousness forgotten, he does.

* * *

Of all the reactions she expected him to have, bursting into laughter upon opening her-much long-labored over-gift is not one she pictured.

Lothiriel can only gape in-Surprise? Mortification?-as Eomer's shoulder shake with the force of his laughter.

"I am no master weaver," she says, slowly, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of her voice, "but I did not think I was so unskilled as _that_."

Eomer's look of mirth vanishes as quickly as it arrived and he strides over, his cloak in one hand, and his still-unwrapped gift in the other. "No, Lothiriel, it is not-" He passes her the wrapped package. "Open it. If you do not laugh as well, I will apologize."

Confused as she is, she trusts him. So she pulls back the wrapping, to reveal...a cloak?

A giggle burbles out of her throat before she can stop it, and then they're both laughing, holding their respective presents.

"There is a Gondorian saying," she finally manage to choke out, wiping tears from her eyes with her free hand, "that great minds think alike."

"You Gondorians have sayings for everything," Eomer chuckles. He shakes the cloak out as he does so and Lothiriel cannot help but feel nervous. Oh, but what if the fabric was not to his liking? Or the cut too short, the embroidery too...other, too Dol Amrothian compared to Rohirric standards?

"Did you you sew this yourself?" He asks, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Yes," she admits, "we Gondorian trinkets must be good at _some_ domestic things…"

He shoots her a look that _clearly_ implies that he knows she's trying to hide her anxiety with humor. He pulls the cloak around his shoulders before she can stop him. He's gotten it upside down, somehow, and Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at his irritated expression.

"Here," she offers, setting her own cloak down. Between the two of them, they manage to wrestle it into the correct position. It drapes regally around Eomer's broad shoulders, the length of the fabric long enough to keep him warm, but not so long that it would drag the floor.

"This is well made," he says and she risks a look up at him. It is a mistake, because his eyes are soft, expression sincere, and _Valar_ , it feels as if her heart will beat out of her chest.

"Thank you," Lothiriel says, her voice steadier than she feels. "The pattern is from home. It's supposed to invoke protection and blessings for its wearer."

"I thought that was what your necklace was for," Eomer teases.

"Perhaps I like to think of you protected in more ways than one," She blurts, and feels heat rise in her cheeks.

He's silent for a moment before she feels a calloused but oh-so-gentle finger crooking under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "That is a better gift than either cloak or necklace, though I value them both."

She can only smile helplessly at that-Valar, will she _ever_ be able to be this close to him and not feel as if she were overheating, from the inside out? The sensation only increases when his thumb slides over the side of her jaw-he could easily feel the mad race of her pulse, if he moved his finger just an inch further-and her hands drift up to his chest of their own accord. Lothiriel is more aware than ever of how strong he is, how handsome, how achingly _good_ , and how little effort it would take, for her to stretch up on her toes and finally, _finally_ press her mouth to his-

A sudden rap at the door make them both jump.

"Five more minutes, Lothiriel, you know the rules," comes Erchirion's muffled voice. "And if so much of a hair is out of place on your head-"

Lothiriel wonders, briefly, if her parents would really mind being less a son. They have an heir in Elphir, a nuisance in Amrothos; surely they would understand if she smothered the extra one with a pillow? "Yes, I know, Erchirion!" She cries, loud enough to be heard through the door. "Meddler," she mutters in a lower tone.

Eomer looks to be thinking something similar, if the furrow between his brows is anything to go by, but he steps back to a more _proper_ distance, to retrieve her cloak from the chair she'd placed it on. He sweeps it over her shoulders with much more ease than he had with his own, and Lothiriel marvels at the softness of the fur-lined collar once it's settled. The color, too, is rich and bold: a deep emerald green that she's seen so much of in Rohan.

 _Like his mother's dress_ , she realizes, and flushes pink again at the thought.

"It is beautiful," she says in a soft voice. "And so warm!"

He cracks a smile at that. "Perhaps I like to think of you as protected, too."

Lothiriel cannot help her mouth falling open in awe. A suitor-an eventual husband-was someone she always suspected would want to possess her, to want her for her title, her name, her connection to the powerful men of her family, even if they did love her. And yet, here Eomer is, wanting to see her safe-happy-for her own merit, her own self.

So she cannot help but to step forward again, sliding her hands to rest at his elbows, and stretching up as far as her toes will allow her, to press a kiss to his cheek. A bolder woman would have kissed him in truth, but with Erchirion likely lurking behind the door, she dares not.

That does not stop her from blushing anew at the nearly audible swallow he gives, nor how his eyes linger on her lips once she's pulled away.

"Lothiriel," he starts to say, but another round of pounding on the door stops him.

"I have been informed that your time is up," Eowyn says, "and you should both know I am the only thing preventing Erchirion from forcing the door open."

Lothiriel huffs, giving Eomer's arms an apologetic squeeze before stepping away. She opens the door to find Eowyn-exasperated, but amused-and Erchirion-frowning in a way that is only barely hiding his obnoxious grin-and glares at both of them.

"Were you expecting us to carry on a conversation in raised voice?" She asks.

" _I_ did not," Eowyn answers, elbowing Erchirion.

"It is not in either of your natures to be particularly quiet," defends Erchirion. Lothiriel shakes her head at his antics, pinching him as she steps back into Eowyn's room.

"You are cruel," she tells him. "I do not recall either you nor Amrothos interrupting Elphir and Alycia so rudely when _they_ were courting."

"Elphir was as likely as to do something improper as Amrothos is to suddenly sprout wings," Erchirion chuckles. "You, on the other hand-"

She swats him, rolling her eyes. Oh, Lothiriel could mention how decidedly _improper_ it was to vanish for well over half a day with a woman he was not betrothed to, but frankly? She is too happy, to at ease, to be bothered by her brother's teasing. It is Yule. She is the now the owner of a blessedly warm and beautiful cloak, and of the certain knowledge that Eomer courts her for herself. It would take a disaster of truly epic proportions to dampen her mood. Erchirion's over-protectiveness is not that.

Eowyn is grinning widely, forcing Eomer to turn to and fro as she examines his cloak.

"Oh, this is masterfully done, Lothiriel," she says. "And to think you both thought of cloaks-"

"Great minds think alike," Eomer quips, shooting Lothiriel a smile so warm she feels it all the way down to her toes.

"Or great minds were nudged in the right direction," Erchirion says. "But it is very fitting."

"Am I permitted to say 'I told you so' now?" Eowyn asks, blinking innocently at them both.

"I suppose," Lothiriel says at the same time Eomer groans, "No."

They all laugh at that. A knock at the door interrupts them; it is a servant girl, reminding them that the feast begins in little under half an hour, would they all be ready by then?

Eowyn blanches, all but shoving them from her room so she can dress, and ordering them all to do the same. Lothiriel slips an arm through the crook of both Erchirion and Eomer's elbows, laughing quietly as they eye each other, clearly trying to decide if they were pleased with the arrangement or not.

They both walk her to her door, standing like guardsmen on either side, clearly waiting for the other to leave.

"You have already had the reward for your courting gift, Eomer King," Erchirion says. "Do not think I am such a fool to leave you and my starry-eyed sister alone again after that."

"Erchirion!" Lothiriel protests, face flaming. It is hardly as if she would drag him inside her rooms and kiss him senseless-

 _Much as you would like to_ , a little voice whispers, and Lothiriel is suddenly _very_ glad that neither man possesses Lady Galadriel's skill of reading minds.

Eomer rolls his eyes before turning a much more gentle expression towards her. He lifts her hand to his mouth-a familiar gesture by now, but it does not fail to set her pulse throbbing once more-for a kiss. "Until later then, my lady. I believe I owe you a debt."

Lothiriel is not sure how she knows-perhaps it is his tone, or the way his lips are brushing gossamer soft over the back of her hand-but she knows he means the almost-kiss she had stolen. Somehow, she doubts his payment will be as chaste as hers.

Eomer is gone before she can collect her thoughts, leaving Erchirion blinking perplexedly after him. "What did he mean by that?"

"A Rohirric courting tradition," Lothiriel lies.

Mercifully, Erchirion does not ask for further explanation.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Alriiiiiight, let's break it down, shall we?

The Gondorian Yule present opening tradition is actually based on my own family's tradition (I come from a large Catholic family) that's gone back for about 3 generations now. There's no historical precedent for it other than I really enjoy doing it each year (we're up to nearly 50 of us in my immediate family, so you can imagine how long that takes).

As to the Gondorian post-courting gift tradition: taking a page from actual Victorian courtship (those poor repressed bastards). Yes, Victorian couples could be left alone behind closed doors-but not for very long periods, and typically only after they were "officially" engaged. I tweaked it a bit here, but what is fiction for, after all?

So, I'm sure some of y'all are ready to SKEWER me for there still being no "actual" kissing yet, but friends. My darlings. It's coming. Pinky-promise. (It was supposed to happen this chapter but then I made some scenes longer and had to add in a couple of other things so pls don't kill me). As it is, I hope this chapter satisfied in in its own way! Feel free to yell at me over on **theemightypen** on tumblr if you find you need to 3


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note:** Back again, friends! Thanks again for the sweet reviews, follows, and favorites. They're so very much appreciated.

This will be the last chapter centered around Yule, for anyone keeping track.

And now, onward! Lothiriel makes a new acquaintance, and Eomer discovers that dancing is much less simple as King than it was as a marshal.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

* * *

In Gondor, the last day of Yule is something of a non-event. It's the end to the holiday celebrations-both family and court-based-and most people are so worn about by the twelve day stretch of feasting and dancing that they are all too happy to let the day pass by without much fanfare.

It becomes quickly apparent that Rohan does not share this mindset.

Lothiriel finds herself being shaken awake when it is still dark outside, blinking blearily up into Eowyn's excited face.

"Eowyn?" She asks. "Is something the matter?"

"How can you possibly still be asleep?" Is her friend's answer. "It will take us ages to make the _cynehealm_ , not to mention everything else we must do before the feast!"

Privately, Lothiriel is not sure how weaving a simple flower crown would take up the better part of the day, but she allows herself to be pulled from her warm, comfortable bed, hurrying to get dressed as Eowyn all but vibrates with impatience by her door.

Upon joining Merthwyn and a number of other ladies in the kitchens, it becomes clear as to the reason for such urgency: there are flowers here enough to fill a field. Winter jasmine, calendulas, primroses, and a large red type of flower she's never seen before. The result is a fragrant pile, brightly colored and cheerful.

"Sweet Elbereth," Lothiriel breathes, drawing a laugh out of Eowyn.

"It is tradition for the hosting household to have crowns enough for every lady present," Eowyn explains. "They are meant as a wish for happiness and blessings from Vana in the year to come."

"And a request for luckiness in love," chortles Merthwyn, dumping an armful of flowers into Lothiriel's lap. "Though you have no need of such prayers, Eowyn!"

That sets the rest of the ladies tittering in laughter. Some faces she recognizes-Mistress Theodburga, Mistress Deorwyn, a clump of serving girls scarcely more than six and then-and some she does not. There is a gaggle of women who are entirely unfamiliar to her: blonde and beautiful to a one, they are dressed rather more finely than the other women. "Daughters of some of the council members," Merthwyn murmurs, catching her obviously perplexed look.

"I think we all should aspire to be as lucky as Lady Eowyn in love," one of the women says, sending a knowing smirk in Eowyn's direction. "Though we may not all have to venture to Gondor to do so."

There is an insult there, thinly veiled, and Lothiriel cannot tell if it is directed towards Eowyn, Faramir, or Gondor itself. Either way, it sets her teeth on edge.

Eowyn, however, looks unimpressed. "You could do worse than finding a good man from Gondor, Dreda. They are every bit as brave and strong as any eorlingas."

"And as handsome," another of the women-this one younger, with thick blonde curls and a smattering of freckles across her nose-giggles. "We admire your brother very much, Princess Lothiriel."

She blinks in surprise. Oh, Lothiriel knows Erchirion to be handsome, but he is so quiet, so unassuming, that many women have overlooked him in the past, preferring Amrothos's obvious charm, or Elphir's status as future Prince. But her other brothers are not here now, and she cannot begrudge anyone for thinking well of him. "There is much to admire about him," she finally says, offering the girl a small smile. "Though I must confess, I am very biased."

The girl grins, introducing herself as Hildred, daughter of Baldred. "If your cousin is anywhere as handsome as him, I can understand how he captured Eowyn's attention!"

"Although, we were told," the first woman-Dreda, with her long sheen of golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a curious twist to her mouth-says, "that your cousin does not resemble you or your brother overmuch."

While that is certainly true enough-Faramir is fair, his copper hair more suited among the Rohirrim than his own people-Lothiriel senses that the woman does not mean it as compliment. "He does not. His hair is an almost red, and he has more freckles than I suspect he knows what to do with."

"No wonder you took such a fancy to him, Eowyn," Hildred says with a giggle. "You have always liked red hair."

A thought dawns and Lothiriel turns to blink at a rapidly-blushing Eowyn. "No."

"Yes," Eowyn admits, laughing slightly. "There was a time when I thought no man more handsome than Eothain."

The whole room laughs anew at that and Lothiriel cannot help but imagine a tiny Eowyn, staring longingly after a younger Eothain while Eomer watches on in horror.

"And what of you, my lady?" The third woman-plump, with blonde hair darker than the rest, with a wide smiling mouth-asks, sincerity in every line of her body."Have any of our kinsmen managed to capture your fancy?"

She opens her mouth to answer-not to tell the truth, per se, because she knows very well how quickly gossip can spread-when Dreda cuts across her with a laugh. "Gresilda, you cannot be serious! I am certain the men of Rohan hold little interest for a princess of Gondor."

Lothiriel can feel her face heat-for once, not in embarrassment, but in anger. "What do you mean by that?"

Dreda blinks innocently. "Oh, nothing, my lady! Only that you and your countrywomen must be used to a different sort of man than we have in the Mark. Men of Gondor are said to be so...refined. Well-behaved. Men of the Mark are many things, but one would be hard-pressed to call them mild. I would think the difference to be unappealing for a lady such as yourself."

Lothiriel can feel her eyebrows edging towards her hairline. Dimly, she's aware of Eowyn's thunderous look to her left, Merthwyn's obvious irritation to her right, but all she can truly focus on is Dreda's sickeningly sweet expression.

 _She means to challenge me, here and now, to insult all of Rohan!_ Lothiriel realizes. She cannot fathom why-this is the first time she's met the woman, after all, and she cannot even think of having heard her name before now. But it will not stand. She cannot let it.

"You are right," she agrees, fighting to keep her tone even, "mild is not a word I would use to describe your kinsmen. I have met many men of the Mark, both here and in Minas Tirith. All have shown their quality to be of the highest sort. Brave. Strong. True. What does refinement matter when compared to such things? Any woman-Gondorian or otherwise-would be hard-pressed to find better qualities in a man she hopes to call husband."

The room gives a murmur of agreement, and a number of warm smiles directed towards her.

"Well said, my lady," Merthwyn says.

"Someone must have captured your fancy, to earn a defense like that," Dreda drawls. "The question is: who?"

Lothiriel keeps her face as blank as she can, though her traitorous cheeks betray her once more by flushing crimson. Eowyn spares her the trial of answering, saying in a sharp tone, "I do not think it would require Lothiriel fancying a man of the Mark for her to acknowledge and honor that they are brave and good."

"The princess' heart is her own business," agrees Mistress Theodburga, fixing Dreda with a stern look. "I doubt you would like to be put on the spot about where _your_ fancies have laid over the years, Dreda, Dernhelm's daughter."

That finally knocks the smug look from the other woman's face and she ducks her head, shifting her attention to the flowers in her lap. "Forgive me, my lady. I was only curious."

Lothiriel believes _that_ as much as she believes that Hobbits have a second stomach, as Pippin tried to convince her so long ago now, but she can scarcely say so if she intends to avoid another confrontation. Eventually, the ladies break off into smaller groups, weaving the flowers into crowns and talking amongst themselves.

"Pay Dreda no heed," Eowyn says in a low tone, the jerkiness of her fingers giving away her anger. "She has always thought too highly of herself, and has wanted the title of queen since we were girls."

That gives Lothiriel pause-before the War, _Theodred_ , not Eomer, had been in first in line for the throne. "Just the title, no matter whom she would have to marry to earn it?"

Eowyn snorts. "Just so. I suspect it would not matter if it were Saruman himself on the throne, she would still want the matching crown."

Still, Lothiriel feels unsettled. "But no doubt the crown holds more appeal than ever, as it is not Saruman who is king, but Eomer. A young man, and a brave one-"

"Who has feelings for _you_ ," Eowyn interrupts her, reaching over to take one of Lothiriel's hands in her own. "Dreda may covet all she wishes, but there is little she can do to change that."

Lothiriel cannot help but smile at that, tightening her fingers around Eowyn's. "What would I do without you, Eowyn of Rohan?"

"Fret yourself into an easily avoidable situation," she teases, grinning at Lothiriel's huff of laughter, "as I would likely horribly offend some Minas Tirithian noblewoman without you."

"Oh, I hope you will do so even if I am present," giggles Lothiriel. Eowyn makes an affronted noise, hitting her in the nose with a free flower.

The rest of the day passes rather quickly. Lothiriel cannot mind her aching fingers when she and the other ladies look over the fruits of their labor. They all murmur the prayers to Vana over the assembled crowns, and it is with no small amount of pleasure that she can just see Dreda's surprised expression as she repeats the words in nearly flawless Rohirric. It is a petty thing, a small thing, to feel such pleasure at shocking someone she scarcely knows, but she feels it nonetheless.

 _I am no mere interloper_ , Lothiriel finds herself thinking, and Bledgifu's disapproving face floats in her mind's eye as well, lined up beside the pinched expression Dreda currently wears, _I could belong here._

Eowyn's hand is warm in hers, and the gentle chuck Merthwyn gives her under her chin as she pushes a particularly beautiful crown of flowers into her hands makes her think that maybe, just maybe, she already does.

* * *

As a marshal of the Mark and a member of the royal household, Eomer is long used to being prepared to look his best on the final day of Yule. He has strong memories of Theodred emptying a bucket of water over his head, both to cure his sleepiness and the lingering smell of one-too-many ales from the night before. He has dimmer ones of his mother grumbling as she pulled a brush through his tangled hair-"Just as unruly as your father's!"-as Eowyn giggled behind her hands, and said father lounged lazily on the floor.

He would prefer either thing to this.

It feels as if every inch of him has been scrubbed, his hair combed through so many times he suspect half of it may have remained on the brush, and been forced into his most formal tunic and breeches.

Erkenbrand enters once he's fully dressed. He takes one look at his expression-likely verging towards murderous-and bursts into laughter.

"It is not funny," Eomer grumbles, slouching into the nearest chair, ignoring his squire's horrified squawk of protest. "Why must I be trussed up like some _sigeléan_?"

"Tonight is the last night of Yule, Eomer King," the older man answers, once his mirth has subsided. "Not to mention that there are a number of eligible ladies that the council would like you to take into consideration present…"

Eomer sits up, abruptly. "What?"

Erkenbrand eyes him cautiously. "You knew this, sire. Both Baldred and Dernhelm's daughters have come to Edoras to be presented to you, and I imagine there is no shortage of other ladies that would be more than happy to claim a dance."

"Oh, _helle_ ," he blurts before he can stop himself. How could he have forgotten? How many Yules had he watched Theodred fend off a veritable gaggle of eligible ladies, all eager to get to know the Mark's elusive and reserved Crown Prince? But Theodred had never courted anyone-well, not anyone the entirety of the Mark could know about-and certainly would not have had not had to compete with Gondor's more rigid courting standards if he _had_. Adding in the matter of his and Lothiriel's courtship being a relative secret...Bema, how was he to handle this?

Erkenbrand's expression is a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Your sweetheart will understand that you have obligations as king, Eomer."

Eomer blanches-how had Erkenbrand known? "I do not know what you mean," he says instead, hoping his tone is even enough to hide his surprise.

The older man rolls his eyes. "I do not know who she is, Eomer, but I can think of precious little other reason you would be so reluctant to dance with some of the most eligible and beautiful women the Mark has to offer."

Relief fills him. "You have not been on the king's council for years for nothing, Erkenbrand."

"Aye, I've been known to have a brain or two in my head," he chuckles. "And with that in mind, I would save the _hlíepen_ for the lady of your choice."

He's right, of course. The _hlíepen_ is nearly always comprised of unmarried couples, ripe for courting, given its rather...intimate nature. Lifts, the press of partners' bodies from hip to shoulder... Erchirion would likely have his head, not to mention Duilin...but the thought of their irritation pales in comparison to the thought of having Lothiriel so close. In the Mark, the dance is merely a statement of interest, a whiff of potential, but in Gondor it would likely be seen as nothing short of an outright declaration of courtship.

Luckily, they are not in Gondor.

"She must be something, to get you grinning like that, sire," Erkenbrand says, something of a question in his voice.

Eomer is suddenly reminded that he was one of Theoden's most trusted advisors, one of his oldest friends. What Eothain is-and has been-for him, Erkenbrand was once to his uncle. That alone has been enough to trust him with the weight of Head Councilor, to turn to him when the rest of the council has made him angry enough to want to order them all outside for a moment's peace...and it is why he smiles now. Why he knows Erkenbrand is asking from a place of concern, of affection, and not of one of politics.

"She is," he agrees.

"Bema bless you both, then," the older man says, giving his shoulder a sound thump. "It is high time this country has a Queen again. Though you will forgive me for thinking her unlikely to be more gracious than Elfhild Queen."

Eomer had scarcely known his aunt-she had died not long after his own mother, trying to bring another child into the world-but all of the Mark knows of her sweetness, her charm.

 _And her frailty, too_ , he thinks, though not unkindly. Elfhild _had_ been frail-prone to illness, likely to be weary after short amounts of exertion. Many had not thought her to be the right choice for his uncle. But they had loved each other truly, and Theodred had been strong, a true Crown Prince. A great leader of men and an even better friend. It is still strange, to think him gone. It has been nearly ten months since he had fallen at the Fords, and sometimes it does not truly feel real.

That he will never muse Eomer's hair again, or swing Eowyn up into a one-armed embrace. That he will not help till the fields, come springtime, nor see Eowyn wed, nor Eomer himself. He wonders, not for the first time, what Theodred would have made of Lothiriel.

He can almost picture him as he had been in life: narrower shoulders than his own, darker of hair, a scar on his cheek from his first encounter with the Dunlendings just visible behind his beard, dark eyes wise and familiar in the firelight.

 _There must be something about those Gondorians, eh, geswigra? Eowyn, you-_

 _ **And you**_ _,_ Eomer thinks.

Theodred would have shrugged, grinning. He had never been good at hiding things from Eomer. In his mind's eye, his cousin's face grows more serious, sadder.

 _I suppose it's best it falls to you to carry on the line of Eorl, you and your brynhitu cwen_. _Bema knows how you managed to find someone as stubborn as you are-don't look at me like that, bríwþicce, you know it's true-but I am glad of it. I am glad you have found happiness. I am glad Eowyn has found her peace._

 _ **We could have had both**_ , Eomer thinks. _**Our happiness, our peace...but you and Uncle, too.**_

Theodred's expression turns wry. _Perhaps. Though I doubt you would have had as much success convincing your princess's father of that, as a Marshal of the Mark, as you will as King. Do not pity us, Eomer. Live your life. Know that we are proud of you. Westu hal, Eomer King._

"-mer King?"

Erkenbrand's voice pulls him from his daydream and Eomer has to blink for a moment to come back to himself, eyes feeling suspiciously damp.

"Are you well?" Erkenbrand asks. "They are expecting us in the hall soon."

With one last look at the empty chair across from him, Eomer stands. "Let us go, then. Bema knows what Eowyn would do to me if I were to delay the start of the dancing."

* * *

How there is any ale at all after twelve nights of revelry Lothiriel will never understand, and yet there are a large number of barrels visible around the hall, and no few number of vats of wassail either. There are large groups clustered around each one, and a space cleared in the middle of the hall that's clearly intended to become a dance floor. Eowyn and Eomer stand are just visible in one of the corners, and she cannot help but give both of them a happy wave. Eowyn looks lovely in a gown of deep green, and Eomer matches her, the color equally eye-catching against his darker skin. He meets her eyes and offers her a slow, warm smile-Valar, that alone makes her breath catch.

Erchirion-her escort for the time being, looking handsome in the customary navy blue of Dol Amroth-follows her gaze and grins. "Can I expect you to behave tonight, little flower?"

She arches an eyebrow at him, trying and failing to hide a blush. "I am sure I do not know what you mean, Erchirion."

"No overindulging, no trodding on anyone's toes, and," at this he winks, "no more than three dances with a certain gentleman."

Lothiriel's had smiled at the first two requirements, but now finds herself frowning mightily. "Oh, Erchirion, that is not fair!"

"Fair or not, it is tradition," he admonishes, tapping her nose with a finger. "And more than Ada or Naneth would deem appropriate, were they here."

"They are not here," she grumbles, "and even Elphir was granted more leeway."

"Elphir was also in official negotiations for Alycia's hand during their first Yule together," Erchirion reminds her. Something pulls his attention from her and Lothiriel turns her head; unsurprisingly it's Lisswyn, arriving with Wilfled and Eothain, who all beam at the sight of them.

"Bema be good, _glómmung cwén_ ," Eothain crows, pulling Lothiriel's hands from Erchirion's to better look her over. "I think your brother will be run ragged, keeping the stallions away from you tonight!"

Lothiriel blushes, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "You exaggerate, Eothain."

"The red does become you, Lothiriel," Lisswyn assures her, in her gentle way. "Mistress Theodburga has outdone herself."

Lothiriel smooths her hands over the red velvet, feeling abruptly nervous. She has never worn a dress in this shade before, nor in the cut. It leaves her shoulders very nearly bare and dips almost scandalously along her collarbones. It is Rohirric in every way, and while she had felt confident when her maid had laced her into it earlier, it feels...overwhelming, suddenly. As if she is trying too hard.

"Come," Wilfled says, seemingly sensing her anxiety, "the first dance is starting soon! You'll have no time to worry about men walking into wooden beams upon seeing you if your feet are distracted."

That startles a laugh out of her throat even as Erchirion nearly chokes on his ale behind her, and Lothiriel allows Wilfled to tuck her hand into her elbow and lead her towards the dance floor. Eowyn joins them not long after.

"The first dance is the _tumbian_ ," she explains, as if she has not informed Lothiriel of this at least three times a day since the beginning of Yule. "You place each of your arms over the shoulders of the ladies next to you, and then-"

"We spin in a circle," Lothiriel recites. "Three times one way, four times the other."

"And you must be careful to remember your _cynehealm_ ," Wilfled says. "If it falls from your head, whichever man picks it up earns the right to the next dance."

Lothiriel blinks in surprise, suddenly more aware of the larger ring of men surrounding the semi-formed circle of women. "Oh," she says.

Eowyn merely grins, nudging Lothiriel with her elbow. "You may cheat a little, if you like. You would hardly be the first to try to ensure your _cynehealm_ lands at the feet of a man you'd like to encourage."

Wilfled snorts. "You should make him sweat a little, though. See that Eothred claims your first dance, or even one of the other riders. It's more fun that way."

Lothiriel shakes her head at her friend's mischief. "Would Eothain find it funny if you were to do such a thing to him?"

"I suppose we will find out," Wilfled laughs, slipping one arm around Lothiriel's shoulders and another around a recently-reappeared Lisswyn's. "Quickly now, the music is starting!"

Lothiriel scarcely has time to throw her other arm around Eowyn's shoulders before the sound of drums and strings begins. There's a loud cheer-from both circles-and then they begin to move. Lothiriel is shorter than both Eowyn and Wilfled and has to strain to keep up with the pace but she hardly minds. How can she, when their dear faces are alight with joy, with happiness? The first switch in direction catches her off-balance, but they hold her fast, both grinning as she laughs an apology.

She's too caught up in enjoying herself to realize that a number of _cynehealms_ have disappeared from the other women's heads. It's not until Wilfled throws her own head back that she realizes the flowers are still in her own hair. Trying to pick Eomer out of the crowd of men-some already crowing about having caught a crown-is near impossible. Fleetingly, she wonders what would happen if she were to not throw her _cynehealm_ at all-but that choice is taken from her when she misses a step, nearly tumbling backwards if not for Eowyn's strong grip.

She's one of the last to lose her flowers, and the circles dissolve into a mass of men and women, all trying to find the appropriate _cynehealm_ or its owner.

Wilfled's has been claimed by a blushing youth-Freca, Lothiriel thinks his name is-who stammeringly tries to pass off the flowers to a laughing Eothain. Eothain waves his own prize in the boy's face: apparently, Eowyn's _cynehealm_ had tumbled directly into his outstretched hands, through no fault of his own. Erchirion, unsurprisingly, is holding Lisswyn's flowers, and they're both flushed rosy with pleasure at the prospect.

Lothiriel finally spies Eomer, who is looking down at the crown in his hands with a frown. She feels her heart give an uncomfortable lurch: it is not her _cynehealm_ of red and white he holds, but a different one, with the yellow of winter jasmine and orange calendulas.

"There's no reason to look so cross, _glómmung cwén_ ," interrupts a familiar voice. Lothiriel turns to find Eothred's smiling face. Her _cynehealm_ is held between his weathered hands. "Surely I am not such a terrible prospect, for a dance partner?"

She huffs a laugh. "Of course not, Eothred. I suspect I'll be the envy of the entire hall."

He snorts at that, gently settling the flowers back on her head. "I think you have us flipped, my lady, but I thank you all the same."

A sudden murmur from the crowd claims both of their attention: the owner of the _cynehealm_ Eomer holds has revealed herself. Something thick and heavy sinks into Lothiriel's stomach as Dreda steps forward, blushing prettily under the eyes of the hall. Of all of the ladies present _must_ it be her?

"Lothiriel," Eothred says suddenly, startling her into turning her eyes from the other woman. The older man looks as serious as she's ever seen him, so the sudden press of his thumb and finger around her chin startles her. "Easy now, lass. That's nothing to fret over, mark my words."

She flushes, even as they both settle into the positions for the next dance. "Am I so obvious?"

Eothred's face pulls into a grin. "I suppose it's possible that a blind man would have missed it-" His voice cuts off when she pinches his hand. His expression sobers again. "No man would choose fool's gold after knowing the real thing, my lady."

Lothiriel can only smile helplessly at the compliment. "You are too kind, Eothred."

His grip tightens on her hand for a moment before he smiles again. "Kind, eh? Not troublesome?"

"The two are not mutually exclusive," she teases.

He abruptly lifts her in response, and her startled shriek of laughter draws the eyes of nearly half the hall. "Come now, _glómmung cwén,_ " he says, settling her back on her feet, "let's give _him_ something to fret about, hm?"

* * *

Eomer is not sure what he likes less about this situation: the fact that he had not caught Lothiriel's _cynehealm_ or the fact that Eothred _had_.

"Eomer King?" Comes a musical voice.

Looking down, he finds Dreda peering up at him, hand extended.

Right. The dance.

He passes her _cynehealm_ back to her, waiting patiently-or mostly patiently-as she settles it back on her head before offering her hands to him once more. They've known each other since they were children-Dernhelm had been a marshal with his father-but he has not seen her since they were scarcely more than teenagers. At the time, Eomer had been too preoccupied with earning his uncle's praise, and Dreda too infatuated with Theodred to take much note of each other.

She is a beautiful woman: long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a slim figure, all well set-off by the deep blue of her dress.

But she cannot hold a candle to Lothiriel. Lothiriel, with her cheeks flushed pink, the thick waves of her hair free around her shoulders, shoulders bared by the blessedly daring neckline of her dress, the red tantalizingly warm looking against her skin-

Lothiriel, who is currently being held aloft by a grinning Eothred.

Jealousy is not something Eomer has ever be accustomed to feeling, but he feels it now, bitter as bile in his mouth.

"We have to start the dancing, sire," comes Dreda's voice again, pulling his attention back to her.

Abruptly, he feels guilty. It is not Dreda's fault that he did not catch the _cynehealm_ he wanted, nor is it fault that his marshal knows entirely too well how to irritate him. "You are right," he agrees, taking one of her hands in his.

Dreda's face lights up as they dance; it is clear she enjoys it, and even more clear that she enjoys having the eyes of the hall on them.

"My father told me of your venture to the West-mark, and your treaty with the Dunlendings," her nose wrinkles daintily at the word. "I trust those...savages have remained true to their word?"

Eomer is grateful for the times that Duilin drilled all of the dances of the Mark into his head, because he somehow remembers the steps even while he reels from the question. He cannot blame her, truly, for having such a thought: a year ago, he would have said something similar. But having met Dera, having seen what the children of the tribe had suffered...it is not so simple as it had been before. "They have more honor than you think," he says, wincing at how harsh he sounds. "It is a good thing, to put our past grievances aside. After so much loss, the Mark needs every ally it can find."

Dreda blinks rapidly before offering a slightly tremulous smile. "Of course. I meant no offense to our...allies."

They're both silent for a moment before Dreda speaks again, looking slightly less wary. "It cannot be easy. Taking on the role of king at a time such as this."

He huffs a laugh. "A truer statement has never been said, my lady."

She brightens considerably at that. "It need not be so difficult. Even after Eowyn leaves to wed her Gondorian lord...there are many who would help you bring the Mark into a new age of prosperity and peace."

At that, he arches an eyebrow. "I do not doubt any of our kinsmen, Lady Dreda."

Her eyelashes flutter. "Perhaps that is because I do not refer to them. Well, not our kins _men_. It is among the women of the Mark you should turn to for comfort, for council."

 _A Queen_ , he realizes, with a second thought following quickly after, _she means herself._

In another life, Dreda would have made an ideal Queen. Beautiful, well-spoken, with a good lineage to boot. Her father, for all of his grumblings, is a good man, a good leader.

But here and now, there is only woman Eomer can imagine sharing the burden of ruling with. The joys of spring, the heat of summer, the fall harvest, and the ice of winter. And as suitable as Dreda may be, it is not her that he wants beside him during feasts, or curled beneath the furs of his bed to hide from the cold.

"Perhaps," is all he can say, and he can see the dismissal in his tone is not lost on Dreda.

She offers him a polite curtsey once the dance is through, slipping away to join a group of women who all giggle at her approach and cast him curious looks over her shoulder.

He can just make out Eothred, sweeping into a low bow in front of Lothiriel, who is shaking her head at him. Eomer scarcely takes two steps in their direction before another lady-Hildred, Baldred's daughter-has blocked his path, beaming up at him.

"Would you dance with me, Eomer King?" She asks.

Eomer opens his mouth to protest, but she does not give him time to answer, instead plucking at his hand and leading him back the way he came. And that is how it goes for the next three dances: he's scarcely finished with one partner before another is presenting themselves. Some, he recognizes-Eowyn cuts in, just once, and laughs at his pinched expression-others he doesn't. But the fact remains: none of them are Lothiriel.

He sees her every so often, being spun to and fro by yet another eorlingas. Eothain twice, Erchirion once, and _helle_ , even that bastard Grimslade, who has no business being near a lady half as fine as Lothiriel, let alone Lothiriel herself.

Alarm doesn't truly set in until after the seventh dance, when Eomer realizes he cannot see Lothiriel at all. The sudden sharp pain of wood against his ankle makes him nearly stumble. Looking down to find the source, he finds Duilin, who frowns mightily up at him.

"Idiot boy," he grumbles.

"Duilin, not now," Eomer groans.

"Fine," the older man snaps. "Then I _won't_ tell you that if I were a visiting princess, looking to escape from over-eager dance partners, that I would go out into Morwen Queen's garden for some fresh air. I _won't_ tell you that Erchirion has long since been distracted, and that likely no one saw anyone leave the hall since the twelfth barrel of ale has been opened."

Eomer can only gape at him as the Master Healer shoves a familiar bundle into his hands: Lothiriel's cloak. "I also won't tell you that this cloak was left behind by its mistress, who is likely needing it now."

He can scarcely stutter out a thank you before Duilin is all but kicking him towards the door that leads to his grandmother's garden. The cold is jarring in its intensity and he frowns at the thought of her-with her well-known aversion to the cold-standing outside without a cloak. Someone, likely Merthwyn, had thought to leave a few torches outside, and he hears the slightly muffled conversation of one or two couples as he wanders the path.

Finally, he spots her. The garden overlooks the back side of Edoras, the _Ered Nimrais_ rising into view with its snowcapped peaks.

Despite his earlier irritation, he cannot help but smile as she shivers against the cold, face turned out towards the view.

"Forget something?" He asks.

She jumps nearly a foot, whirling around to look at him. Despite the cold, her cheeks are still flushed pink, just barely visible in the dim light of the closest torch. He holds the cloak out to her.

"Oh, thank the Valar," she sighs, reaching out to take it. "I thought I might freeze, but I was not ready to fend off Eothred's invitations to dance again."

Eomer frowns. "He should know better than most when to leave a lady be."

"Perhaps," says Lothiriel. They fall silent as he comes to stand beside her, both soaking in the quiet of the garden after the raucousness indoors.

"Did you-"

"How did-"

They both stop, offering each other amused looks as they try to talk over each other. Eomer motions her on to speak first. Lothiriel turns to face him, cocking her head to the side as she does so. "How did you find me?"

"Duilin," he admits, gratified when she laughs. "He spared me having to search every room in the keep, at least."

"So considerate," she teases. Her expression dims a little. "I had not thought you would notice me gone."

Eomer frowns, guilt swooping hotly in his gut. On instinct, he steps closer, crooking a finger under her chin. "Doubt some other thing, Lothiriel."

He can feel her tremble, slightly, and when she opens her mouth to talk again, the full softness of her bottom lip brushes against his thumb. "Did...did you enjoy the dancing?" She asks in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

He has to swallow once, twice, before answering. "Well enough. Though not as much as I could have."

"Me either," Lothiriel admits. Something in her eyes makes him think of her boldness the night they'd exchanged cloaks. His hand slides of its own volition to her neck, thumb stroking lightly over the rapid pulse at her throat.

"I believe I owe you a debt, my lady," he says, willing himself to sound calmer than he feels.

"A debt amongst royalty is no small thing," she answers, the tremble in her voice taking the seriousness out of her words. "How shall you repay it?"

"In the Mark, a debt is paid back three-fold," Eomer says. "And as the debtor sees fit."

With that, he leans just enough to press his lips to her forehead. Then further down, to brush a kiss to each cheek, smiling just slightly at the sudden grip of Lothiriel's hands at his doublet. He leans back enough just to meet her eyes-which proves not to be a good idea, because they are blown wide in the low light of the torch, her cheeks flushed, and-

Well, he doubts anything short of another War could have stopped him from kissing her in truth then. Her lips are soft, and warm, and part with the small sound of a gasp. He pulls back-or tries to, but then Lothiriel's arms are around his neck, pulling him down, closer to her height, and her lips are on his again. She tilts her head to kiss him more thoroughly, her mouth opening willingly under his and _Bema_ , why had they waited so long?

He has to stifle a groan when her nails scratch lightly against his neck, and she makes a sound not far from a whimper when he tugs gently at her bottom lip with his teeth.

Slowly, he tries to lessen the kiss's intensity-Bema knows what Erchirion would do to him if he were to find them like this-but Lothiriel makes an adorably grumpy noise and kisses him anew, her hands anchored rather firmly on either side of his neck.

" _Swete_ ," he finally manages to say, pulling back to press his forehead to hers. " _Cwealmbealu_."

Lothiriel takes a shuddering breath, her fingers flexing slightly. "I-I am sorry, I did not mean-"

Eomer kisses her again, just once. "Do not apologize for _that_."

She laughs, softly. "Fine, then."

They linger for a moment, Lothiriel tucked comfortably against his chest, his cheek pressed to the top of her head, until the conversations of other people nearby become more audible.

"We should return," he says, regretfully. "I do not think this would fall under 'appropriate wooing' by Gondorian standards-"

She stops him with a finger to his lips, smiling. "I think I prefer Rohan's standards."

And how can he not kiss her again for that?

Lothiriel is the one to pull back now, blushing as she attempts to smooth her hair back into place. "But you are right. It's a miracle no one has thought to look for either one of us."

A miracle Eomer suspects they have Duilin to thank for, but he offers her his arm regardless. "I have only one favor to ask."

"Lucky for you, I am feeling particularly generous at the moment," she says, nose tilted upwards as she tries-and fails-for haughtiness.

"The next dance," he murmurs, feeling strangely nervous, as if he has not spent the last ten minutes with his mouth pressed to hers, "will you-"

Lothiriel gives a quiet laugh, squeezing his arm. "The next dance, and the one after, and the one after that."

Yule, Eomer muses, really is a good time of year.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** ;)

Dreda, for those curious, looks something like Annabelle Wallis, of Tudor fame.

(Friendly reminder that I am available over on tumblr at **theemightypen** if anyone needs to come yell/talk/ask questions)

 **Terms:**

cynehealm: crown of flowers  
sigeléan: trophy, prize  
hlíepen: to dance, to leap-in this instance, I've made it the name of a specific Rohirric dance  
geswigra: cousin  
tumbian: to dance, to tumble-a different Rohirric dance. If there are any Poldark fans reading this fic, think of that one scene where Demelza is dancing at Jim and Jinny's wedding.  
swete: sweetheart  
cwealmbealu: death, death of me


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay, friends! Christmas is a busy time of year for me, both professionally and personally, so it took me a lot longer than I wanted to hammer this chapter out.

As always, thank you for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites. I'm glad some of y'all are still with me on this crazy journey!

Also, friendly reminder that you can find me over on tumblr as **theemightypen**! Feel free to come ask questions, throw prompts at me (I've been filling a bunch the past couple weeks and it's been a BLAST) or whatever else you'd like to talk about.

And now, onward! We get to see a new side of Eowyn in this chapter, Lothiriel finds herself with a mystery on her hands, and Eomer gets his just rewards.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

* * *

Much as Lothiriel enjoys the festivities of Yule-both at home and in Rohan-it is something of a relief to return to a more normal routine. She has missed her daily lessons with Duilin, and missed more still being able to spend time with Eowyn without ten other pairs of ears around.

Eowyn herself is infinitely more relaxed now that there are not an endless parade of feasts to manage, and that the large majority of the guests have begun to trickle back to their respective cities and towns.

"It is not as if they will not all be assembled again soon," she grumbles, watching Hildred and Gresilda exchange a tearful goodbye on the steps of Meduseld. "It feels as if the whole country is insisting on coming to my wedding."

"It is a mark of how well they love you," Lothiriel soothes.

"It is a mark of how curious they are about Faramir, you mean," Eowyn argues. "That is all I heard about, throughout Yule! As if I am not capable of knowing my own heart."

Lothiriel frowns in sympathy. "I am sure they just want to know more about the man who is robbing them of their White Lady."

Eowyn snorts. "Robbing? I am hardly a parcel. I go willingly and happily to Gondor, and to Faramir."

"You do not have to convince me," Lothiriel reminds her, "you forget, I have seen you two in person."

Eowyn sticks her tongue out at her as they turn to return to the warmth of the hall. Lothiriel merely grins, stifling a laugh as Eowyn jabs her elbow against her ribs.

"Speaking of Faramir," she says once they've seated themselves across from each other at an open table, "have you given any more thought to the potential designs of the wedding marks he sent you for Yule?"

Eowyn's face heats in a pleased blush and she pulls the corresponding letters from her pocket. "If I thought about it anymore there would scarcely be room for anything else in my head."

Lothiriel smiles, leaning her chin on her hand. "Why, Eowyn, that was positively romantic."

She frowns. "Tease all you like, but there is nothing so important to any eorlingas than their wedding marks. They are more than just tattoos, they are a statement of the love between the pair that bears them."

Wincing and sensing she has unknowingly stepped on a nerve, Lothiriel reaches out to take one of Eowyn's hands in hers. "I am sorry, I did not mean to be unkind. I understand how important the marks are."

Eowyn's expression softens and she squeezes her hand in return. "I confess, I am nervous because there is no precedent for such things in Gondor. If this is to be a blending of our two countries' traditions, should there not be a true compromise between the two?"

"You already wear Faramir's ring," Lothiriel points out, relieved at Eowyn's easy forgiveness. "It is as close as an equivalent to a wedding mark as we have. As for the marks...you will have to remind me of how their designs and colors are determined."

"The marks are not intended to be identical. They're supposed to be two halves of a whole, much like the couple themselves. Similar, of course, but unique to either person. The color is determined by the other person's home city, the pattern by important aspects of their courtship."

"Oh, how lovely," Lothiriel says wistfully. "That explains Eothain's mark very well."

"Yes, he is very proud of it," Eowyn agrees. "So much so that I think Wilfled is tired of him showing it off at every opportunity."

"He cannot help himself," she laughs. "I expect you will find Faramir to be of a similar mind."

Eowyn flushes again at the thought, pushing the sketches towards Lothiriel. Faramir has always been better with words than with drawings-Boromir, for all his gruffness, had been the better artist-and she suspects he had asked for aid from an outside source. For the three options of marks are beautiful, each with slight variations in design and color.

"Would Faramir's mark be red, for Aldburg?" She asks aloud.

"Hm," hums Eowyn. "It could be, as that is where my father's family is from. But I think the green of Edoras would suit him better."

"Green, then," Lothiriel says, "and with perhaps a few flowers in the upper band. To symbolize your meetings at the Houses, and of-"

"Healing. And rebirth, and a nod to Vana, all at once," Eowyn agrees, expression more than a little dreamy.

"He will love it," she says, squeezing Eowyn's hand, "though I suspect not as much as he loves you."

Eowyn laughs, ducking her head. Her expression turns slightly melancholy as she eyes the drawings, however. "Happy as I am now, I cannot deny that I once thought none of this possible."

Lothiriel frowns, keeping her hand tight around her friend's. She knows, in part from Faramir and mostly from Eowyn herself, the depths of the despair that had gripped her before Pelennor, how little value she had placed on her own life. It hurts her, to think of Eowyn feeling so alone, but if she had not felt such pain, if she had not conquered it, would she have ever they have ever met? Would she have ever seen that the fleeting glory to be found in battle was not the prize she long dreamed it to be?

"I wish you had not had to suffer, Eowyn," she says, trying to choose her words with care, "but I believe I admire you even more for having conquered such darkness, and being able to find happiness anew."

Eowyn's grip only grows tighter. "It is just so strange. How much a year can change things."

Lothiriel can only agree. A year ago, she had known next to nothing of Rohan. Boromir had still been alive, Denethor still ruling Gondor with a vice-like grip, the shadow of Mordor creeping ever closer. Sitting around the fire, now, it seems as if the events of the War are a distant memory, surreal in their darkness, their despair. And yet, who would they be if none of it had happened?

"Strange is the right word for it," Lothiriel murmurs. "But not always for ill. It makes me wonder what another year will bring."

"Yule, 3020," Eowyn says. "I will be a woman wed."

"Blodwyn will be over a year old, perhaps learning to walk."

"Your nephew will have likely grown half a foot!"

"Duilin will have finally perfected his coltsfoot brew."

The happier vein of imaginings brings the cheer back to Eowyn's face, and her eyes sparkle dangerously as she says, "Perhaps you will be looking over wedding marks of your own-"

"Eowyn!" Lothiriel cries, hiding her cheeks behind her hands.

"Or perhaps not," Eowyn teases. "My brother is not a patient man, and I would not be surprised if he tried to finagle my wedding into becoming a double one-"

Lothiriel dissolves into laughter at the sheer unlikelihood of such an event taking place. The level of scandal it would cause would be unheard of. Poor Ada's eye would twitch for days at the thought! A proper Gondorian betrothal lasted at least six months, and they were still technically only courting. Likely even unflappable Aragorn would likely take some issue with such a sudden event, no matter how much he cares for Eomer.

She is still wiping tears from her eyes when another familiar voice says, "Dare I ask what is so amusing?"

 _Oh, Elbereth_.

"You may ask," Eowyn answers, "but we shall not tell you."

"Cruel women," Eothred says dramatically, loping around the table to sit beside Eowyn. "We have just come from a council meeting and could use some cheer."

Lothiriel wills herself to remain still and calm as Eomer settles in beside her, though she suspects from Eowyn and Eothred's grins that she has failed to do so. She cannot help the tremor of heat that snakes up her spine when he turns to offer her a lopsided smile. If she thought she was aware of him before, it is even worse now, having kissed him.

"I cannot blame you for wanting to keep secrets from Eothred," Eomer says, ignoring the marshal's squawk of outrage, "but surely I have proved myself trustworthy?"

It does not help that his hand finds hers under the table. His fingers are warm when he laces them through hers and she has to stifle a gulp at the sensation of his thumb stroking tantalizingly over her index finger.

"I have three brothers, Eomer," she finds herself saying, voice miraculously steady, despite the disconcerting feeling of warmth pooling in her stomach. "Forgive me for not putting much trust in any man's ability to remain tight-lipped."

Eothred gives a loud, "Hah!" as Eowyn grins. Eomer, however, simply continues moving his thumb in a terribly distracting pattern. "Not even me?"

Lothiriel can feel the blush in her cheeks increase to a near painful degree of heat; Valar, it is if he does not care that his sister and friend are directly across the table!

"Well-" She starts to say, if only to get him to stop his assault on the suddenly hypersensitive nerves of her hand, when someone clearing their throat behind them causes her to jump in surprise.

"I hope I am not interrupting anything," Duilin grumbles. "But you are late for our lesson, girl, and I dragged my old bones through the snow to come find you."

"Oh, Duilin, I am sorry," she says. "I lost track of the time-"

"Among other things," he grumbles, obviously glaring down at where Eomer's hand is in hers under the table. Eomer merely arches an eyebrow, giving the healer a defiant look. His fingers remain firmly clasped around hers. She is not sure which is the unstoppable force and the other the immovable object, only that they were _both_ acting like children.

Lothiriel closes her eyes. Counts to ten. Wills herself not to sigh.

 _Men!_

She tries to ease her hand from Eomer's in as a discreet manner as possible-Eothred winks at her, so she supposes she has not succeeded-before rising to take Duilin's arm.

"You should have sent someone to look for me, _stearcmód láréow_ ," she says. "I know how badly the cold hurts your joints."

He softens at that. "Bah. I am not an invalid and the fresh air suits me."

"As does meddling," Eomer says in a low tone.

Lothiriel meets Eowyn's exasperated stare with one of her own. "I will see you at dinner, Eowyn?"

"Yes," Eowyn agrees, "and hopefully surrounded by a better-mannered crowd."

"You wound me, Eowyn!" Eothred cries but Eomer flinches under his sister's steely gaze.

Feeling a slight twinge of pity, she reaches forward to give his absurdly long hair a tug, smiling when he turns to give her a surprised look. "Behave, insufferable man."

His grin is no less dangerous than the one he'd given her upon sitting. "As you wish, _byrnihtu cwén_."

" _Sæpigu dysigas_ ," Duilin mutters.

"I am sure I don't know what you mean," Lothiriel says serenely, though she knows very well that her teacher has just called both her and Eomer sappy fools. "Should we begin the journey back to your shop? I remember you mentioning needing help grinding herbs..."

* * *

Eothred lets out a low whistle as they watch Lothiriel retreat, a placated Duilin at her side. "Bema, she could have the entire council managed within a month!"

"Yes, and Eomer as well," Eowyn says with a grin. "Though he appears managed already."

Eomer shrugs. "It is no hard thing to do the bidding of a beautiful woman."

"So that is why you have such a hard time agreeing to the council's suggestions," Eothred drawls, leaning on his hand. "Perhaps if we replaced them all with Lothiriel, there would be no quarrels."

While the idea of multiple Lothiriels is an...appealing one, to say the least, Eomer frowns at the mention of his council. They had not wasted any time asking about any of the women he had danced with on the last night of Yule, Lothiriel included.

"All suitable choices, to be sure," Ordlac had said, "and no lack of beauty in the bunch either!"

Dernhelm and Baldred had both puffed up proudly at that.

"Still, you must make your choice and soon, Eomer King," Tolfrith had reminded him. "For Eowyn travels to Gondor to be wed in four months time, and the Mark will be without a Lady of the Golden Hall."

"And an heir," someone had grumbled.

The council had begun to offer their opinions in earnest-some supported Dreda, others Hildred, still more gave names of women he is not sure he has even met, but a surprising number threw Lothiriel's name out more than once. Eight, to be exact.

"The Gondorian Princess?" Baldred had scoffed. "She comes from a great blood-line, yes-"

"With impeccable connections," Ordlac had interrupted. "Let us not forget she is cousin to the Steward of Minas Tirith, and daughter of the ruling Prince of Gondor's greatest trading port."

"-and is pretty enough-"

"Rumored to have Elf blood…" Another member, Elfhelm had chuckled. "After seeing her and Queen Arwen side-by-side, I would not doubt it!"

"-and has been shown to be good-tempered and intelligent-"

"Are you attempting to make a point as to why the lady is an ill choice?" Eothred had asked. "Because thus far, you have not named one bad quality."

Baldred had scowled at the marshal before turning to meet Eomer's gaze. "But sire, she is not of the Mark! It is more important than ever that we strengthen the people's faith in the line of Eorl, in our country, instead of introducing a...foreign entity."

"The people of Edoras call her _glómmung cwén_ and she already has an admirable grasp of Rohirric, Baldred," Erkenbrand had snorted. "She is hardly unwilling to learn. You might as well say what you mean: you would rather Eomer King wed Dreda, Dernhelm's daughter, or your own."

That had set the men murmuring once more until Gamling had noticed his irritated stare and called for silence. "I thank you all for your council," Eomer had said, willing himself to sound sincere, "but the ultimate choice will be mine and mine alone."

He had expected his black mood to linger, but upon finding Lothiriel and Eowyn in the great hall, laughing at one another across the table, it was hard to be anything but pleased. Even better yet to sit beside Lothiriel, to watch her flush at the press of his hand, to remember what her lips had felt like-tasted like-in the crisp cold of his grandmother's garden-

"Eomer!" Comes Eowyn's voice, pulling him from his memories. "Are you listening to me?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes?"

"No," she says, succinctly. "I asked if you would like to take a ride. The snow is not so heavy today and-" She stops abruptly, shifting the parchment around on the table.

 _And there is not much time left for us to do so_ , goes unspoken, but Eomer hears it nonetheless.

"Firefoot could use some exercise," he says. "I assume Windfola could as well?"

"The stable boys have been complaining of her restlessness," Eowyn confirms.

"And we have been complaining about yours!" Eothred crows, earning a swift smack in response. Eomer stands and offers Eowyn his elbow before she can do more permanent damage to his marshal.

"One day, he is going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and the Mark is going to find itself at war again," Eowyn grumbles.

"Eothred is not that much of a fool," he counters. "Uncle would not have made him a marshal otherwise."

They're silent on their walk to the stables, though not uncomfortably so. It is a quality both of them have always enjoyed in the other; neither is prone to filling empty space with unnecessary words. But, as they mount their respective horses-Firefoot is quite literally chomping at the bit, while Windfola does a happy trot once they've cleared the gates of Edoras-he cannot help but notice that Eowyn looks...sad. Melancholy, even. It is a look he has not seen on her face since those terrible nights in the Houses of Healing, when she had been dreaming beyond his reach.

He motions for his guard-trusty Caedda, who is one of the only men from his former eored who does not seem to think he has become soft upon becoming king-to drop back to give them privacy.

"Something is troubling you, _sweostor_ ," he says, once the other men are out of earshot.

Eowyn offers him a brief smile. "It is a silly thing."

"Anything that makes you that quiet," he dodges her outraged kick, laughing as Windfola gives a disgruntled huff at the sudden jerk of her reins, "cannot be silly."

She rolls her eyes at him, a little bit of the melancholy lifted from her expression. "But it is."

"Still," Eomer insists. "I would hear it. Pain shared is pain halved, not doubled."

Eowyn's gaze sharpens. "That is a Dol Amrothian phrase."

"As is the person I heard it from," he says, feeling gratified when she laughs. "But Eowyn. If something is troubling you, I would know."

She sighs, running a hand over Windfola's neck as they continue their easy pace along the winding road leading from Edoras into the Wold. "I will miss this. The Mark. Edoras, the stables, our people-"

"I do not make the list?" Eomer asks, teasing.

It has the desired effect, because Eowyn rolls her eyes again, shaking her head. "You are at the very top, as you well know."

"I am glad to hear it," he says. "But that is a natural thing. It is not silly in the slightest to worry about missing your home, all you have known until now."

"Everyone talks of a bride's excitement, her joy," Eowyn interrupts, as if he hasn't spoken. "As if it is an ill omen to feel anything less than incandescently happy. And I fear...I fear I will fail. Fall short."

"I doubt you are the first bride to feel like this," Eomer says. "In truth, if you did not feel this way, _I_ would be worried. It is no small thing you are doing, Eowyn. You will be a wife, yes, but also a princess amongst the Gondorians, the third most high-ranking lady after Arwen and Lady Dejah. If that is not a daunting prospect, I do not know what is."

"You are so helpful," she says in a dry tone, "to remind me of what it is I should be afraid of."

"That is not what I meant," he says. "Only that I know you to have more than half a brain in your head to be worried. It is not a shameful thing to know fear, Eowyn."

"As if you can speak from experience!" She scoffs. "You, who have led our eoreds into battles for years, you, who did not flinch at even the Mûmakil-"

He pulls Firefoot to a stop, muttering an apology to the stallion before reaching over and taking Windfola's reins from Eowyn's hands. She glares at him, but he needs her to understand, needs to see her face when he says what he is about to say.

"Eowyn. I knew fear when Wormtongue supplanted Theodred in uncle's heart. I knew fear every time I left Edoras, knowing that I was leaving you with him and his machinations, his poisonous words. I knew fear when Gandalf found us, halfway across the Mark, and told me of Helm's Deep. I knew it again when the Nazgul descended. And I knew it most of all when I found you on the fields of Pelennor."

Her eyes go wide. "Oh."

"It is not wrong to fear. If you worry about something coming to pass, it only means that you care deeply about it. And there is no shame in that."

Eowyn is quiet for a moment, fiddling with the end of her braid. "I do not think I ever apologized to you. For going into battle."

Eomer winces. "Eowyn, you need not-"

"I am not sorry I did it," she interrupts, "I am not sorry, for I do not know if I ever would have freed myself from my despair if I had not. But I am sorry for frightening you so. For not doing the duty that Uncle asked of me."

Eomer sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He _had_ been angry with her-how could she have risked her life so rashly? How could she have gone into battle knowing it would likely spell her doom?-but all of that anger has been bled away by her happiness, her return to the bold, strong woman she has always been, in place of the brittle creature of longing the War had made her.

"It is the past," he says, reaching over to take one of her hands in his. "I only ask that you do not do it again. I am sure Faramir would agree with me."

Eowyn laughs, slightly. "Yes, I think he would. Though I am insisting on keeping my sword."

"You would scarcely be a shield-maiden without it," Eomer agrees. "But Eowyn. No more fear. You will make a wonderful wife. And a wonderful lady of Gondor."

Eowyn's expression finally brightens fully, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "But second to another lady of Gondor in your eyes, I think, brother."

"Not second," he argues, "I hold you both in equal regard."

Eowyn scoffs. "I do not think you can classify your feelings towards Lothiriel as anything remotely 'brotherly', especially not after that third dance during Yule-"

" _Eowyn_ ," he hisses.

Laughing, she pulls Windfola's reins from his hands. "Come now, King of the Mark! First rider back to the gates gets to sit beside the Lady of Dol Amroth at dinner!"

He will have to hear about how he cheated the rest of the day, but it is worth it, to hear Eowyn's happy laughter on the wind, to feel the crisp winter air against his face after so much time indoors.

And, of course, being guaranteed getting to sit beside Lothiriel instead of across from her is no small reward, either.

* * *

"-and we'll need more marjoram, as the weeks after Yule have a spike in people with unsettled stomachs-"

"And likely more cloves, for all of the headaches," Lothiriel adds, smiling at the Master Healer. "I can write to my mother, to see if Dol Amroth can spare any of our supplies."

"Hm," Duilin hums. "But how would the Mark pay for such things? Eorlingas are proud, and do not respond well to perceived charity. Not even from you, _glómmung cwén_."

Lothiriel frowns. Thinks for a moment. "But they would accept trade? As the villagers in the West-mark did with the Dunlendings?"

"Just so," Duilin says, a note of pride in his voice. "You have been paying attention, girl."

"On occasion," she says, distracted, mind a-whirl with possibilities. What does the Mark possess that Dol Amroth would want? Horses are too valuable to Eorlingas to trade-there is some sort of sacred bond between horse and rider, and to trade a horse for something as paltry as herbs would be horribly insulting. Precious metals are in no short supply, in Gondor, and most of their trade was with Dwarves on that front, anyways. People of the Mark would have no use of silk from Harad. But Umbar's spices and herbs, already being traded in Dol Amroth...perhaps they could be traded in turn for-

"The furs," Lothiriel says. "The furs the Dunlendings gave Eomer-"

"The ones that line your courting cloak-" Duilin says, just to be contrary.

"Yes, those," she agrees impatiently. "There are number of merchants, both in Dol Amroth and in Umbar, who would consider such material rare finery."

"Furs from the Dunlendings, herbs and spices from Umbar," murmurs Duilin. "And how would Gondor and Rohan benefit?"

"As intermediaries," Lothiriel says, thinking of her father's long-fought for shipping routes, the much needed peace Elphir and Alycia's marriage had brought at least her city and Aly's home island. Their marriage had been for love, yes, but not entirely without more far-reaching benefits. "Dol Amroth already trades with Umbar, Rohan-or at least the West-mark-with the Dunlendings. Establishing the trade routes would take work, to be sure, but it would also _create_ work. Possibly even opening the door for more opportunities in the future. To encourage such cooperation across four cultures is-"

"Queenly," he says.

Lothiriel blinks. She looks up to find Duilin smiling at her-the warmest expression she has ever seen, the intensity of it making her blush-and he shakes his cane in her direction. "You should tell Eomer of your idea, Lothiriel. And ensure that the council knows just who it comes from."

She opens her mouth to protest-she will not pitch this idea as _bait_ , as a way to convince the council that she is worthy of Eomer's courtship! It is simply the most beneficial course of action, one that will help her people, the Mark's people, people in far-away Umbar and the weakened Dunlendings-

Before she can say a word, there is a frantic round of knocking on the door to Duilin's shop.

"Are you expecting anyone?" She asks. Lothiriel had been late for her lesson, it's true, but not so late that the afternoon's appointments were due.

"Injuries rarely plan themselves, girl," Duilin huffs, "best see who it is."

His knees truly are bothering him, with the cold, so she bids him to sit before hurrying over towards the door. The knocking has only increased. It makes her anxious; whoever is waiting must be in dire need, to be announcing their presence in such a harried manner! She lifts the bolt, pulls open the door, and-

"Lisswyn?" She says, in surprise.

Lisswyn's usually serene and sweet face is neither. She is nearly white-whether from pain or fear, Lothiriel cannot tell-and Lothiriel cannot help but give an exclamation of worry.

"L-Lothiriel," she stutters, "oh, I had not thought-I should come back later-"

"You will do no such thing!" Lothiriel cries, plucking her friend by the wrist and dragging her inside the shop. She pushes Lisswyn down into the nearest chair, hurriedly collecting as many blankets as she can find to cover her with. Duilin hobbles over and takes Lisswyn's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Hm, shock, I think," he murmurs. "Have you had a fall, Lisswyn? Is Darwyn well?"

"I have not fallen," she says, sounding slightly more steady. "And Darwyn is with Wilfled. But I do need to speak with you, Master Healer. About a...a private matter."

Lothiriel blinks as both of their eyes-Duilin's shrewd brown, Lisswyn's teary cornflower blue-flick in her direction.

"Oh," she says, dumbly. Quickly, Lothiriel fumbles for her cloak, trying not to knock over vials in her haste. "I...I can wait outside?"

"No need to stand around in the cold," Duilin answers. "Consider our lesson over for the day, Lothiriel. Occupy your free time before dinner any way you see fit."

And she abruptly finds herself booted out into the snow, with one last glimpse of Lisswyn's apologetic face as the door shuts behind her.

The snow is falling faster than it had in the morning, but her cloak-her marvelously warm, too-beautiful-for-words cloak-keep her warm, even as her thoughts race. Lisswyn is as even-tempered as Erchirion, not prone to her brother's more dramatic outbursts, nor her sister-in-law's towering rages. For Lisswyn to be so unsettled is...worrisome, in more way than one.

 _I should have stayed_ , Lothiriel thinks, dimly aware of the snow crunching beneath her boots, _I should have insisted on being of some use-it is likely she will be my sister before the next year is out, perhaps I could have offered her comfort-_

"Careful, _glómmung cwén_!" Comes Leofa's familiar voice.

She looks up, blinking in surprise. She had nearly walked right into the stable doors in her distraction! Mercifully, they're shut, to better keep the horses warm, and the only witness to her near accident is the beaming Leofa, who blushes as she offers him her thanks.

"Oh, it's nothing, my lady!" He insists. "Couldn't let you damage that pretty face of yours!"

"Leofa," the Master of Horse-Herubrand, Lothiriel thinks his name is-says in a warning tone.

The boy blushes. "Have you come to see Niprehdil, my lady?"

She had not, but now that she thinks about it, it has been some time since she's spent more than a few passing moments with her horse. Leofa eagerly shows her to the mare's box, blushing even more when she smiles her thanks.

Niprehdil pushes her nose into Lothiriel's hand, clearly impatient for attention.

"I have been very remiss in taking care of you, haven't I?" Lothiriel says. "I am sorry, _meldis_. I have so much to tell you…"

Before Elphir had wed Aly, Niphredil had been her best secret-keeper. Naneth had often been so busy, running the city in Ada's absence, Elphir by her side, and Erchirion and Amrothos had often been with the calvary and fleet, respectively. Lothiriel had had friends, of course; daughters of minor lords of the surrounding cities, even a few of the more successful merchant's daughters...but Niprehdil had been who she had chosen to share her deepest secrets with. Her annoyance with Amrothos's attempts to grow a beard, her passing fancy for one of Erchirion's friends, her pride at being allowed to go with Naneth to the Houses...there was no better listener than her mare.

Feeling a little foolish, but mostly happy, she starts to brush down Niprehdil's already immaculate coat, telling her about Yule, about her quarrell with Erchirion, about the cloak she still can scarcely believe belongs to her.

"He kissed me, Niprehdil," she whispers, face pressed to the horse's neck to both hide her blush and muffle her voice. "And it was... _wonderful_. Nothing at all like Landion, do you remember him?"

She takes Niprehdil's snort to be one of agreement. "He was so forceful! But Eomer…" at this, she sighs.

Niprehdil butts her nose into Lothiriel's hand again and she laughs. "Yes, I know. Entirely starry-eyed. Naneth would be pleased."

A sudden gust of cold air makes her peek her head out of her horse's stall; the doors of the stable have opened, revealing a flushed Eowyn and Eomer, both dismounting from their respective horses.

 _They must have gone for a ride_ , she thinks, giving Niprehdil's mane one last brush before stepping out to greet them.

Eowyn's face is alight, all earlier worry gone, and she steps closer to kiss both of Lothiriel's cheeks."Say 'thank you', Lothiriel," she says.

"Thank you," she parrots, a little bemused. "What exactly am I thanking you for?"

"For allowing my dirty cheat of a brother to beat me during our race," Eowyn says, ignoring the pointed look Eomer gives her, "the prize was getting to sit beside you at dinner."

Lothiriel is absurdly-and entirely-pleased at the thought, but chooses to tap her chin, giving Eomer a thorough once-over. His hair is wind-ruffled, color high in his cheeks, dark eyes alight with happiness and no small measure of amusement. In short, far, far too handsome for her peace of mind. "Hm. If he cheated, should he earn such a reward?"

Eowyn laughs even as Eomer frowns at her. "I did not cheat. It is not my fault that Firefoot simply has a longer gait than Windfola."

"Uneven stakes from the start!" Lothiriel cries, pressing a hand to her mouth. "How shall we deal with such treachery, Eowyn?"

"I will leave that up to you," Eowyn says. She turns back towards the doors, clearly intent on leaving them alone. "Better be quick about it, though. Erchirion will be suspicious if you are _both_ late to dinner."

"Eowyn!" The cry in unison, but she merely laughs as she exits the stables. Muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'meddlesome sister', he takes Firefoot's reins from one of the stable boys and leads the stallion back to his stall. Lothiriel follows along, watching as Eomer swats his horse's mouth away from his pocket.

"Greedy fiend," he admonishes.

"After a gallop, I would think he had earned at least an apple," she says.

Eomer turns his head to look at her. "You would reward him for cheating?"

She rolls her eyes, stepping closer to both of them. Eomer tenses and a sick sensation swoops in her stomach-she had been teasing, she knows they had not cheated-

"Lothiriel, take care," he says, "Firefoot is not usually welcoming to strangers-"

As if on cue, the stallion turns his head, sniffing Lothiriel curiously. She remains still, a little worried-she had overstepped her bounds with one of Elphir's war-horses once, and almost received a nasty bite in return-but then he leans his head over her shoulder. He is much sturdier than Niprehdil, and broader too, but she strokes his neck all the same.

"What a handsome lad," she croons, stroking the dappled skin.

"Should I be jealous?" Comes Eomer's voice. She peeks out from under Firefoot's almost smothering affection.

"Decidedly not," Lothiriel says. "Like horse like rider."

Eomer snorts. "I am not sure that is a flattering comparison." But he pets Firefoot all the same.

Eventually she wiggles out from under Firefoot's neck, laughing as he noses her hair in search for apples. Eomer rescues her before the horse can make a mess of her hair, producing an apple from his saddlebag. She steps back to watch them-a more in sync pair she has never seen-and cannot help but smile.

"A more faithful friend I could not ask for," Eomer finally says. "He has seen me through many trials."

"Niprehdil is the same for me," she admits. "I used to tell her all my secrets, as a girl."

"I still tell Firefoot my secrets," he says. "When I can."

"About what?" She asks, before she can think to stop herself.

Eomer's smile is a warm, slow thing that makes her throat go dry. Suddenly, she's aware that between the stall's doors and Firefoot's body..they are hidden from view. Eomer steps closer, crowding her up against the wood behind her. It feels as if her heart will beat out of her chest, the earlier sensation of hyper-awareness when he had taken her hand in the hall returning ten-fold.

But she is not afraid. Not even when Eomer braces himself with his arms on either side of her head. She should feel small, boxed in, even, but instead she feels...anticipation. _Desire_ , if she's being honest with herself. They are not touching at all, but the weight of his stare is as heavy as caress and twice as potent.

"What," and she has to swallow as his eyes drop to her lips, "secrets do you tell him, Eomer?"

Impulse tells her to tilt her head to the side, and pure instinct is what keeps her from gasping when he leans down and presses a kiss to her jaw. Then her chin, her forehead, her cheeks-

"How long I have wanted to do this, for one," he says.

She somehow has the presence of mind to stretch upwards, on the tips of her toes, to better be able to wrap her arms around his neck. The kiss is gentle at first, a warm brush of lips, but then Eomer's arms fold around her, one hand at the back of her neck and the other against the base of her spine. She's pressed as close to him as she possibly can be, and her entire body feels more flame than flesh. The sensation only increases when Eomer coaxes her mouth open, the kiss shifting from gentle warmth to heat, heady and bright.

He hums, low in his throat, and something hot and almost painful lances through her stomach and below.

 _So this is what it is to want and be wanted_ , Lothiriel thinks. She likes it.

Firefoot gives a sudden whicker, startling them both. They're both breathless, still pressed close together, and she can only give a soft, helpless laugh when he rests his forehead on hers.

"We seem to be making a habit of this," she murmurs when she finds her voice.

"You'll not find me likely to complain," he says, dipping his head for another gentle kiss. "But Eowyn is right. Your brother would have something to say if we both arrived looking so…"

"Disheveled?" Lothiriel offers. "Disoriented? Debauched?"

Eomer's eyes seem to darken and she can feel her pulse jump to meet the calloused finger that slides along her neck. "Debauched seems too strong a word."

She swallows, reaching up to catch his hand in hers. Thinking, suddenly, of the first time they had been in the stables. It seems so long ago, and yet, not, all at once. Regardless, she brings his hand to her mouth and brushes a kiss to his knuckles. Drawing from some inner well of mischief she has only ever suspected Amrothos to possess, she meets his gaze, tilts her head to the side, and says, "Does it?"

Eomer groans, pulling his hand from hers and sliding it back into her hair for another kiss: brief, warm, and utterly, utterly thorough.

" _Cwealmbealu_ ," he says.

She merely smiles. "I would hope not. That would be treason."

He huffs a laugh before stepping back to a more respectable difference. His eyes drift over her-more appraising than anything else, but Lothiriel still fights the urge to shiver. "You'll pass," he says, after a moment.

Lothiriel wrinkles her nose. "Pass for what?"

"A proper lady," Eomer says, grinning when she swats him. "A Rohirric one, anyways, with that piece of hay in your hair."

She shakes her head and removes the offending object. "Insufferable man."

"And yet you are still here," with that, he gives her a gentle nudge towards the stall's doors. "Go to the hall, Lothiriel. And do not forget my prize for beating Eowyn."

She is still grinning like a fool when she reaches the hall. Eowyn motions her over, making sure to spare enough room on the bench for both her and the race's winner.

"You are lucky you are prone to blushes, Lothiriel," she whispers, "for no one will think to ask why your cheeks look as if they've been painted with roses."

Lothiriel shoves her shoulder, anxiously scanning the table for Erchirion-if anyone were to suspect the true reason for her giddiness, it would be her brother-and frowning when she cannot place him.

"Where is Erchirion?" She asks.

"He's taking his meal in his room," Merthwyn answers. "Said he didn't feel well."

The niggling feeling of unease from earlier creeps back into the pit of Lothiriel's stomach. It cannot be a coincidence that her brother claims illness on the same day Lisswyn should appear at Duilin's with some sort of emergency. A gentle touch at her elbow brings her attention to Cwenhild, who is peering at her.

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"I am well," she says, resolving to talk to Erchirion in the morning. Surely, it can wait until then.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Bum bum bum! Had to cut this chapter a bit short, as it was already a full page longer than nearly every other chapter of this story (but hopefully worth it for y'all!)

So I decided to delve a little bit deeper into Eowyn's mindset-I know in the books, Tolkien described her as being "healed" in spirit by Faramir-which I love! And believe!-but I also know from personal experience that long-held anxieties and mental health struggles don't just POOF away overnight. So, yes, I think Eowyn definitely has her vulnerable moments, and I can't think of two people she trusts more (excepting Faramir, who is miles away) than Eomer and Lothiriel. I apologize if anyone finds this out of character for her, but once the words started flowing, it felt too natural to stop!

As for Eomer and Lothiriel-oh, my favorite pair. So happy! So smitten! What could possibly go wrong! (Hint: to quote Luke Skywalker, "This isn't going to go the way you think!")

 **Terms:**

 _Sæpigu dysigas:_ sappy fools

Cwealmbealu:Death of me


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:** Guys, so so sorry for the long delay! I've had a nasty case of strep throat for the past 2 weeks and it made writing impossible. So this chapter is a bit longer to make up for the long wait! As always, thank you so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites.

You can also find me over on tumblr at **theemightypen** ; I've been doing some prompt fills and whatnot and it's been super fun!

And now, onward! In this chapter you'll find a discussion of dowries, a prince in a serious pickle, and the healing power of hugs-well, sort of.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

* * *

Merthwyn eyes her curiously when she arrives in the kitchens to retrieve her brother's breakfast.

"You realize we have serving girls for that, Lothiriel," she says.

Lothiriel laughs but takes the tray all the same. "I do. But I am well-versed in my brother's tendency to revert to a childlike state when he is ill, and I do not want to force any one less experienced to deal with that."

"A wise woman and a kind one," the housekeeper chuckles. "Although I feel I would be remiss in not telling you that it is not _just_ your brother who becomes a man-child when sick."

"Eothred?" Lothiriel guesses.

"Of course. And Gamling as well. Even a certain king is known to behave less like a man grown and more like a petulant child when afflicted with a head cold."

Lothiriel cannot help but smile at that particular image: Eomer, curled in his bed, frowning mightily at a bowl of soup. "I can only imagine."

" _I_ can imagine you'll one day see it for yourself," Merthwyn retorts, grin widening when Lothiriel blushes. "Away with you, Princess! Tend to your brother. I'll make sure no one interrupts."

The warmth of the kitchens and the warmth of the meal in her hands stays with her, even as she moves down the cold corridor towards the rooms Erchirion has been given. Her first knock receives no answer, but she's been expecting that. Erchirion, for all his quiet calm, hates being sick more than anyone in their family. Elphir, she suspects, welcomes it, as a valid reason to recuperate and escape from princely duties for a few days. Amrothos milks it, moaning about his early demise all while scarfing down as many pastries as Alphros can sneak him. But Erchirion? He _hates_ what illness reduces him to. Scowls at every concoction Naneth makes for him, grumbles until even Alycia refuses to spend time with him in his rooms.

Her second knock is also unheard.

"Erchirion, it's me," she finally says. "Stop being such an infant and let me in."

Still no response.

Huffing at his childish display, she pushes the door open. Despite the lateness of the hour-it is well past dawn-the curtains are drawn. The only light comes from a low-banked fire. Erchirion's bedding is strewn about the room, an odd sight. Even in sickness, it is not like him to be anything other than tidy.

"Erchirion?" She asks, unable to spot him. The same sensation of unease from the night before slithers to life in her stomach again.

"Here, Lothiriel," comes her brother's voice, strangely hoarse.

 _Which would make sense if he is unwell_ , Lothiriel reminds herself. She comes around the chair his voice had come from. Facing the fire, Erchirion looks as if he hasn't slept in a week, eyes red, hair mused.

"You really are sick!" She cries, setting the tray down on a nearby table before pressing a hand to his forehead. "Valar, Erchirion, I thought you and Lisswyn had merely quarrelled and you needed time to cool off-"

"I am not sick," he says dully, "and we did not quarrell."

His forehead is not hot to the touch, but his eyes _are_ glassy. Not unwell, then, but not entirely himself either.

"What is it, then?" She asks.

He leans back in the chair, pulling his face from her grasp. Nods, jerkily, at the small table near the chair. Lothiriel drifts closer, and recognizes both her father's handwriting and the seal of the House of Dol Amroth.

"Read it," says Erchirion.

 _My dear son,_

 _While your mother and I are overjoyed at the news that you have found a lady that you think well-suited to become your wife, we cannot, in good conscience, give you our blessing. We have never met the Lady Lisswyn, and while your sister's letters have also been full of positive reports about her, that is not the same as knowing her. You will recall that we did not give Elphir and Alycia our permission to wed either until both your mother and I had met her. It is not only for our sake, but for yours, that we ask you to take our advice with caution._

 _This is not a permanent forbiddance to marry your lady, Erchirion. If she is as fair, kind, and well-taught as you claim, we would be proud to have her join our family. I merely ask that you consider the short timespan that you have known her, and the challenges she will face in coming to a country and city that is not her own, far removed from all of her kin._

 _As Lothiriel has mentioned that she is a close family friend of Lady Eowyn's, I imagine she will be part of the retinue that will escort her to Emyn Arnen to wed Faramir. When we are all reunited, we will be sure to get to know your lady, and with the Valar's blessing, happily announce your betrothal at that time._

 _I know this is not the answer you were looking for, my son, but it is the only one I can give you._

 _Know that we love you, even if we must disappoint you in this._

 _Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth_

"Oh, Erchirion," Lothiriel says, setting the letter down and stepping closer to wrap her arms around her brother. He presses his face into her stomach and she frowns while she strokes his hair. "I know you must be disappointed, but it is not so ill a thing! It is merely a delay. Naneth will adore Lisswyn. Ada will be charmed instantly upon meeting Darwyn-though I suppose she might be too young to make the journey-"

"You do not understand," comes Erchirion's muffled voice.

Her hand pauses. Tugs a little, until his eyes meet hers. "What don't I understand?" There is anguish in his face, mingled with guilt. Her heart starts to pound. But still he stays silent until she lets go of him. Kneeling, she takes his hands in hers and squeezes them. "'Chirion, please, you're frightening me."

He pulls his hands from hers, hiding his face away. "There can be no delay."

Lothiriel blinks. Horror and realization dawn. "Oh, Elbereth, Erchirion, you two are not already married, are you?"

Erchirion barks a laugh at that, but it is a bitter sound, an unhappy sound. "No. Would that we were."

"What do you-" Oh. _Oh_. Lisswyn's tears, her visit to Master Duilin's shop, Erchirion's usual composure lost over the idea of something as mundane as a delay. "Erchirion, _no_."

"Yes," he says, hiding his face in his hands again. "You are to be an aunt, Lothiriel."

Lothiriel presses a hand to her mouth. A child. Oh, Valar, how could they have been so _careless_?

Erchirion flinches when she says as much. "It was not...it was an accident-"

"An accident that you-you- _lay_ with a woman you are not wed to?" Lothiriel asks, shooting to her feet. "I can think of many terms that would apply here, but 'accidental' is not one of them!"

Erchirion glares at her. "What would you have me say? That I-we-made a mistake?"

"This goes beyond a mistake!" She cries. "Sweet Elbereth, Erchirion, do you understand what you have done?"

This surpasses any worries she could have dreamed about the court not accepting them. Now, no matter if they married a week from now or five months hence, the taint of bastardry would linger on their child. Erchirion would be whispered to be either a fool, who fell prey to the machinations of a conniving peasant, or an irresponsible rake who took advantage of Lisswyn's awe of his princely status. Lisswyn-oh, Valar, _Lisswyn_ -would be judged the court over as an easy, simple, _loose_ woman. Her only saving grace, perhaps, would be the fact that she was married before and has another child, proving that Erchirion had not robbed her of her innocence.

"It changes nothing," he interrupts. "Once we're married-"

Lothiriel wants to shake him. "You are an idiot if you truly believe that."

That puts shock into his face-she has never spoken so harshly to him ever, not even in their argument weeks before. "What do you mean?"

She resists pulling at at her hair, if only just. How is it that her brother-her smart, kind, sensitive brother-can be so blind? So unaware of the consequences that this will bring down on his head, on Lisswyn?

"I will tell you," Lothiriel says, and her voice sounds strange, even to herself. "Because you could not wait, because you and Lisswyn failed to take precautions like any other sane, rational people would-"

At this, Erchirion's mouth opens but she holds up a finger, feeling more like her mother than ever.

"-Lisswyn will face the worst sort of scorn imaginable from nearly every Gondorian noble I can think of. It will not matter that she is kind. That she is beautiful. That she is proven to be able to bear children, both by Darwyn's birth and the birth of your child. That she is skilled in running a household larger than even Ada and Naneth's in Dol Amroth. She will be judged to be a whore, a scheming peasant woman who seduced a Prince of Dol Amroth so that he might wed her. They will be forced to welcome her, on the surface, as your wife and a Princess of Dol Amroth, but she will be without friends, without respect!"

Erchirion's face is red as he shoots to his feet. "You are letting your fears overrule you again, Lothiriel-"

"I am not. What I am describing happened not ten years ago. Do you not remember when Lord Celphen wed Lady Bereniel? She was a seamstress, and visibly showing at the time of their wedding. Uncle Denethor almost did not recognize the marriage, even though Lord Celphen is one of the most admired warriors of the age! It took years of Lady Bereniel endlessly proving herself-through hosting balls, learning the 'proper' way of speaking-to gain even a _modicum_ of the court's acknowledgment!"

"Aragorn and Arwen are Gondor's sovereigns now," Erchirion argues. "Do you think the courts will be permitted to continue-"

"Aragorn and Arwen have been King and Queen for a handful of months!" She cries. "You cannot be so foolish to think that that is enough time to undo ages-worth of prejudicial notions!"

His expression darkens. "Rohan's standards are not so harsh. It is common enough for babes to be born not three or four months after a couple is wed-"

She gives an incredulous laugh. "You cannot be serious. Even by the Mark's standards, this is nothing short of scandalous! You and Lisswyn are not even betrothed! How do you think Eothain will respond to this? Or Eothred? They would be well within their rights to call you out in front of the entirety of Edoras. You are a _prince_ , with all of the responsibilities that entails. If word of this reaches Father, or Aragorn, this could become a diplomatic dispute between our countries!"

"You exaggerate-"

Lothiriel wills herself to remain calm. "No. You are being willfully blind to the depth of what you have done. The consequences of your actions are not limited to just yourself and Lisswyn, Erchirion! This could complicate Faramir and Eowyn's wedding, if not their betrothal itself. It will upset nobles in Rohan and Gondor. It will tarnish Ada and Naneth's reputations-if you are the responsible son, and still so reckless, what does that mean for Amrothos? What lord will permit their daughter to marry the brother of someone so impulsive, so-so- _selfish_!"

She can see that she has shocked him, hurt him, even. Part of her-the part that had always gone running to him the minute he had returned from any campaign, the little girl that remembers hours spent pouring over old tomes with him in the dusty recesses of Dol Amroth's great library-longs to comfort him, to say she understands. But the other part-the part that has watched their father cultivate his reputation of wisdom and sensibility with such care, that has seen what her mother and Alycia have borne in a court that does not know what to make of them-cannot bend.

"I am going to meet Eowyn for her lesson for the day," Lothiriel finally says, attempting to keep her voice level. "I hope you will think on what I have said."

"Lothiriel-" He starts to say.

For the first time in her life, she does not heed her brother's entreaty. She walks to the door and closes it swiftly behind her.

The coldness of the hall greets her. It feels nothing compared to the ice in her stomach.

* * *

Eomer can feel his irritation increasing as another councilor stands to offer his opinion on Eowyn's dowry. Traditionally, a dowry was a family matter. If the War had never happened, if their father had never been cut down by Orcs, it would have been the two of them and his mother, perhaps Theoden and Theodred as well, determining what goods and lands would become his sister's upon her wedding.

But their family has dwindled down to just Eowyn and himself, and apparently the council does not trust him to do it on his own.

"It is not a lack of trust,"" Erkenbrand protests when he voices his thoughts. "You are king now, Eomer. And Eowyn is to wed the Steward of Minas Tirith. Her dowry cannot be anything less than what she deserves."

"And they do not think I would give that to her?" Eomer asks, incredulous. He has been accused of many things when it comes to his sister-over-protectiveness, pigheadedness-but no one could ever say he does not know her worth.

"No, sire," interrupts Ordlac with a smile, "but we think you may not be aware how much you truly have to gift her and her future husband with."

It is, in fact, far more than he ever dreamed.

Their family's seat in Aldburg gives both he and Eowyn the right to a large portion of the shellfish found in the lake, as well as access to acres of wheat and barley, and no small number of horses. Their mother's lands-a gift from Theoden at the time of _her_ marriage-are some of the most well-kept and least damaged in all of the Eastfold. There is some jewelry, too, that had belonged to their grandmother Morwen, and has gone unworn since Elfhild Queen's death nearly three decades ago.

" _Helle_ ," he curses, in surprise. The council chuckles at that, all of them grinning approvingly as he sorts through the records. "How is it that there is so much?"

"The House of Eorl has not seen a wedding since your parents' own, sire," Baldred answers. "As such, there's a bit of a...surplus."

"Though I would caution against giving all of the bounty to Lady Eowyn," rumbles Torfrith. "There is your own marriage and bride-price to think of, after all."

Eomer wisely chooses to ignore Eothred, who he can see smirking out of the corner of his eye.

"It is Eomer King's prerogative to give his sister whatever he deems fit," Erkenbrand says. "We are not here to question his judgment, merely guide."

In the end, it does not take very long at all to decide what will make up Eowyn's dowry. Their mother had been Theoden King's much-loved sister, just as Eowyn is to him. It seems only fitting that all of the lands that had once belonged to Theodwyn would now be passed to her own daughter. The council gives half-hearted grumbles when he insists on a number of the royal stallions part of the dowry, but he wins them over with his reasoning.

"Eowyn will still be a lady of the Mark in her heart, no matter where her husband is from," he explains. "Bema knows the stables of Minas Tirith could do with some Rohirric horseflesh. And besides," at this, he grins, think of Faramir's reaction to one of the Mark's oldest traditions, "I would not have my future nieces and nephews taught to ride on anything less than the most magnificent of _friþhengest_."

There's a long round of cheering at that.

He glances again at the scroll detailing Morwen Queen's jewelry. Eowyn has never been one for flashy pieces-the golden circlet Theoden had had made for her when she had come of age will undoubtedly go with her to Gondor-and he suspects she is already more happy with the ring Faramir has given her than she ever would be with a strand of pearls or earrings encrusted with rubies. Still, they are well-made, and should stay with the female line of Eorl. And given what he remembers of Lady Dejah's own jewelry, and Lothiriel's necklace-he touches it absentmindedly where it lies mostly hidden under his jerkin-it would seem that jewelry is a mark of status in Gondor's courts. It would not do to send Eowyn to become a lady of Gondor ill-prepared.

In all, there are roughly twenty pieces of jewelry, ranging from necklaces to earrings to bracelets. Most are gold and inlaid with precious stones; likely Dwarven made. But a few pieces are silver. Eomer is admittedly rather ignorant when it comes to jewelry-it's not as if he has ever been prone to wearing it, let alone purchasing it-but he does know that Eowyn favors gold, both because of her coloring and because of its commonality amongst Rohirric pieces. The silver...he doubts she'll make much use of it, even with the change in her wardrobe to accommodate Emyn Arnen's colors.

Unbidden, the image of Lothiriel in his grandmother's silver jewelry floats in his mind's eye. He already knows she prefers it, and that the color would stand out far more against the dark waves of her hair than it ever would in Eowyn's golden hair. Silver jewelry for _glómmung cwén_...it strikes him as particularly fitting.

"All of Morwen Queen's gold jewelry should go to Eowyn," he says.

Torfrith frowns from over his quill. "Just the gold?"

"Well, he should keep something for his future queen, eh?" Says Eothred, looking disturbingly smug. Eomer has no doubt that his marshal knows _exactly_ why he'd specified just the gold.

"But surely Morwen Queen's jewelry should be reserved for the future Queen of the Mark, especially the gold," chimes in Dernhelm. "Your own crown is gold, sire-"

"I do not think it will take much to acquire more jewelry for Eomer's bride," Erkenbrand interrupts. "These pieces are family heirlooms. I think it is wise to split the wealth."

The majority of the council voices its agreement and Eomer lets out a sigh of relief; if pressed, he can think of no way of explaining himself that would not put his and Lothiriel's somewhat clandestine courtship out in the open.

"Lord Torfrith, if you'll read back the final dowry for review, I think we shall be finished," Baldred calls.

The older man clears his throat, lifting the parchment closer to the light. "Upon her marriage to Faramir-son of Denethor, Steward of the King of Gondor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien-Eowyn-Eomund's daughter, White Lady of Rohan, sister of Eomer Eadig-"

Eomer frowns a little at that. He doubts his sister would be pleased by being known only through the men in her life rather than her own accomplishments.

"Torfrith," he interjects. "Are we not forgetting one of Eowyn's titles?"

The older man blanches a little. "It does not seem fitting to have 'Slayer of the Witch King' in a marriage contract, Eomer King-"

"Bah," scoffs Eothred, "she is as much that as she is Eomer's sister or Eomund's daughter! Add it in, Torfrith, lest we face the White Lady's wrath."

He shoots Eomer a wink at the conclusion of his speech, grin widening as the older man grumbles as his quill moves across the paper.

Torfrith gives a long-suffering sigh before starting again, "Eowyn-Eomund's daughter, White Lady of Rohan, sister to Eomer Eadig, Slayer of the Witch King-will be, upon her marriage, granted the following as her dowry. Seven of the finest stallions from the king's stables, ownership of her mother's lands in the Eastfold, rights to grain produced in Aldburg's fields, and all of the gold jewelry of Morwen Queen. This property and goods will be retained by the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen for as long as they are wed, and pass on to their eldest son-"

"Eldest child," Dernhelm interjects, surprising Eomer. "It should read 'eldest child', Torfrith. Let it not be said that any daughter of Eowyn of Rohan will be left wanting."

"But traditionally lands and horses are passed to sons-"

"And if there are no sons?" Dernhelm asks. "I have only daughters myself, Lord Torfrith. Forgive me for not standing with tradition this once."

As blatant as the man has become of late in his efforts to promote Dreda as an option for queen, Eomer cannot help but feel a rush of gratitude towards him.

"I agree," he says.

That settles the matter, though the scribe looks more than a little disgruntled as he adjusts the parchment. Eowyn's dowry-and its phrasing-thus agreed upon, all Eomer has to do is sign it before it's neatly packaged, soon to be sent to Faramir, Aragorn, and Imrahil for review. It will be weeks before they respond with their proposed bride-price, though Eomer has no doubt it will be more than generous. Likely too much so, if the surprisingly unsubtle hints in Imrahil's latest letters have been anything to go by-as if the Prince of Dol Amroth had any other reason to ask about the state of the Mark's grain supplies.

The rest of the council meeting is uneventful. There are the usual complaints, the same points made regarding the approaching spring-all things Eomer has heard a thousand times over, by now. So he does not feel guilty about letting his mind wander to more pleasant things.

He expects he will find Lothiriel's blushes endearing until the end of his days, but it is different, somehow, seeing the flush in her cheeks after he's kissed her. Knowing that it was him responsible for how happy, how warm and soft she'd looked, that she trusted him enough, _desired_ him enough to let him kiss her in the stables, to twine her fingers into his hair as she didn't care that someone could easily find them. That she is certain enough of what she feels for him to push the limit of Gondorian propriety-certainly passed what Erchirion would deem "appropriate wooing"-

"Eomer King?" Comes Baldred's familiar voice.

Stifling a curse, Eomer focuses his attention back on his councilor. "Yes, Baldred?"

"If you have no objections, we can conclude the meeting for the day," he says.

Something like giddiness sweeps through him. He certainly has no objections. For one, he'd like to tell Eowyn about the details of her dowry himself, if only to watch her face when she learns that she's to receive seven prize stallions. But being free this early in the day also gives him time to make his way to Duilin's shop in time to escort Lothiriel back to the hall for dinner. That, at least, falls well within the bounds of 'appropriate wooing'.

"I have none," he says, smiling as the councilors all begin to rise. "My thanks again to you all, for giving Eowyn the dowry she deserves."

"To Lady Eowyn!"

"And to Lord Faramir," Eothred adds. "That he might endeavor to be worthy of her!"

The echoing 'ayes' follow Eomer out into the hall.

* * *

"Lothiriel, are you feeling well?" Eowyn asks for what feels like the tenth time in half as many minutes.

Lothiriel forces a passably pleasant expression to her face. "I am fine! Just a small headache. I promise."

Eowyn frowns, clearly sensing the lie, but apparently willing to let it go for now. "You might as well go ahead to Duilin's then. I am sure he will have something to help you."

She opens her mouth to protest, but shuts it just as quickly. It is not a headache bothering her, but a heartache, and Lothiriel knows herself well enough to know that if Eowyn even begins to try to root out the cause behind it, she will be unable to lie to her. It is not her secret to tell, not really, and she has very little desire to drag her friend into the mess her brother has made for himself. Especially when she should be focused on happy things, like her impending wedding and how far she has come in terms of Gondorian housekeeping.

"You do not mind cutting your lesson short?" She asks, just to be sure.

A wry smile pulls at the corners of Eowyn's mouth. "I think I will survive. Somehow."

Despite the overwhelming worry lingering behind her breastbone, Lothiriel cannot help but huff a laugh. "If you are certain."

Eowyn waves her away with a hand. "I will find something to occupy myself with, Lothiriel. Go. See that Duilin gives you something for your head."

Despite Eowyn's good humor and the warmth of her cloak, Lothiriel can feel her mood drop with the temperature as she trudges through the lingering snow to Duilin's shop. The weight of Erchirion and Lisswyn's secret is a pressing, choking thing. She had forced herself to act as normal as possible in front of Eowyn-she will not put that burden on her, not for anything-but it was Duilin that Lisswyn had gone to the day before. If reason serves, he also knows the truth.

The look he gives her upon opening his door only confirms it. Duilin looks as grave as she's ever seen him. He eyes her closely and must see something in her face that gives her away.

"I see he's told you," is his opener. "Come inside, girl. What we have to discuss should not be said where it might be overheard."

Torn between relief and dread, she steps in. Duilin bustles around the shop while she settles herself, reemerging with a bottle of something that looks highly alcoholic.

"This is not the sort of talk that requires tea," he declares. "Full glass first."

She drinks down whatever it is he pours-the taste is awful, but it burns away some of the creeping, niggling anxiety in her stomach. For that, Lothiriel can only be grateful.

"So," Duilin says. "You know the reason behind Lisswyn's outburst yesterday."

Lothiriel sighs, taking another long sip to steel herself. It tastes little better the second time, but it helps to loosen her tongue. "Yes. Valar, Duilin, how could they be so-so-"

"Stupid?" He offers. "Reckless? Selfish, irresponsible-"

"Any of those would fit," she interrupts, knowing he will continue on if she does not stop him. "I said as much to Erchirion."

"Good," Duilin snorts.

"They have put everyone in a terrible position. Themselves, their child, my parents, Eowyn and Faramir-"

"You and Eomer," he adds.

She blinks in surprise. Oh, _Elbereth_. She had not even _thought_ about what this would mean for them. Eomer, as king, would be the one that Eothain would go to for justice, if he felt that Lisswyn was being slighted or mistreated. He cannot afford to appear biased...And there would certainly be ramifications in Gondor as well. Ada would call both her and Erchirion back to Dol Amroth immediately upon finding out about the child. There would be so much going on, and so little time to mention Eomer's intent. And who is to say her parents would even support the match? They know nothing of their courtship. Not to mention the council's reaction to finding out about Erchirion's...actions and the courtship at the same time. Who in their right mind would support the idea of her as queen, with such a scandal surrounding someone so close to her?

Lothiriel does the only thing she can think of: she swears. Violently, in both Rohirric and Sindarin.

Duilin looks impressed. "I am glad the gravity of the situation has not passed you by."

"I had not even-that is the least of their troubles," Lothiriel protests, feeling selfish. There is a _child_ to consider. An innocent life! What are her and Eomer's feelings compared to that?

 _Important in a different way_ , a little voice whispers. _Precious in a different way, too_.

"What are they going to do?" She asks. "Every option I have thought of still leaves someone at a disadvantage. A wedding would be easiest, but it would still be suspicious. A prince of Gondor does not just get married on a whim, no matter how in love he is, and then when the babe comes…"

The master healer is silent for a moment. He swirls his glass in his hand. Strangely, he will not meet her eyes. That is very unlike Duilin-Lothiriel does not think she has ever seen him be anything less than direct and honest.

"You have thought of something," she says, tentatively

He nods. Shifts in his chair. His obvious disquiet only serves to make Lothiriel's earlier anxiety come roaring back. "I do not like it, but I cannot deny its practicality," Duilin finally says. He stands, abruptly, moving to one of the tables to grasp a box of herbs. He holds it out to Lothiriel with a serious expression.

 _Mugwort, tansy_ , _bitter melon_ , she reads. Their meaning-and their use-dawns on her with a swift sensation of nausea.

"No," she gasps. "Duilin-no, we cannot ask that of them."

"I do not want to," he says. "I have only ever given these herbs to women who have asked for thim, with full knowledge of what their purpose is. But I cannot deny that it would be...simpler."

Lothiriel shuts the lid to the box with a forceful _snap_. "Simpler, perhaps, but cruelest of all. They will never agree to such a thing and I do not blame them! The child-their child-is an innocent."

An innocent and almost as certainly, already beloved. Lothiriel cannot imagine making such a choice. Oh, Naneth has told her of patients in the Houses before, frightened young women and tired wives, who have relied on those herbs. But they had made that decision _themselves_ , out of necessity or desire. Lisswyn would never-how could she? Her child, the child of the man she loves.

Duilin raises his hands in a placating motion, looking as old and weary as Lothiriel has ever seen him. "I do not suggest it for cruelty's sake, Lothiriel. But Erchirion and Lisswyn have put themselves and many people that they care for in an impossible situation. They are not betrothed, which in the Mark would excuse an early babe. To my knowledge, Erchirion has not made his courtship known, not even to Eothain and Eothred, though they are not fools and know when a man takes interest in a woman such as Lisswyn. A man's honor is of utmost importance for the eorlingas and your brother's actions thus far have been...lacking."

She knows this. But it does not make it easier to stomach. "There must be another way."

"Oh, Erchirion will wed Lisswyn no matter what else happens," Duilin says. "There is no way around that. It is lucky that he does love her and she him, in that regard. Otherwise their marriage would be considered _áwierigung_."

 _Cursed_ , Lothiriel thinks. It makes her shiver. It makes her want to march back up to the hall and shake Erchirion until his ears ring, for being so damnably _stupid_. The sudden press of Duilin's gnarled hand on hers makes her lift her head to meet his gaze.

"They are grown people, Lothiriel. For better or for ill, they will have to find a way out of this mess on their own. You can prepare as much as you can for what they choose to do, but it is not for you to worry about."

"Someone must," she argues. "Someone should-should help them-"

Her throat feels tight, hot tears suddenly bubbling forth. Angry as she is with her brother, all she wants-all she has ever wanted-is to see him happy.

"You are only human, _nefene_. It is not possible for you to right every wrong, or protect all those whom you love from their own stupidity. Even future queens are not without moments of imperfection."

That pulls a half-laugh, half-sob from her throat. Half-laugh, because of _course_ her teacher would choose such a moment to tease, and half-sob because the future feels so very uncertain.

He chucks her under the chin, gently. "Chin up. You know the rules of the shop."

"N-no tears that are not pain-induced," she recites dutifully.

"Just so," Duilin agrees. "We might as well make use of your time with something other than fretting."

They pass the next hour in companionable, if not entirely comfortable, silence. A knock at the door pulls Lothiriel out of the reverie sorting bandages has put her into. Duilin hobbles to the door and she cannot help but tense; after all, the last time someone had arrived unannounced, it had been the beginning of this entire disaster of a situation.

This time, however, the person behind the door is a welcome sight.

"Eomer King," Duilin greets. "Have you need of my skills?"

"Not at this time, no," Eomer says, amusement clear in his voice. "But I do plan on offering my own to your apprentice."

Lothiriel stands, hastily tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. Duilin turns to offer her a smug grin.

"And what kinds of services would those be, sire?"

Oh, _Valar_. She can feel her cheeks pink and she cannot help but swat the master healer as she draws closer.

"An escort back to the hall," answers Eomer, unfazed or unwilling to acknowledge the innuendo. "I was told by a reputable source that that is well within the boundaries of 'appropriate wooing'."

"I suppose I must grant my approval, then," Duilin says. "If the lady is willing."

"Willing and grateful," Lothiriel says, feeling better than she has all day, just by seeing him. Eomer's grin is a beautiful thing, and despite the worries of the day, the still lingering anxiety over Erchirion and Lisswyn, her heart gives a lurch at the sight of it.

Duilin waves them off with a parting pat to Eomer's shoulder and a kiss to her cheek.

Belatedly, Lothiriel realizes she will be even less likely to lie successfully to Eomer than she would Eowyn, should he sense something is amiss, but she has already pulled the door shut behind her and stepped out into the chill of the evening.

* * *

Lothiriel slips her arm through his with an audible sigh. Pleased as he is to see her, she seems...off. Not as drastically as she had during her quarrel with Erchirion, but still. Not quite herself.

He reaches over with his free hand to cover hers where it rests in the crook of his elbow. She looks up to meet his gaze with a small smile, and-

Ah.

"You've been crying," he murmurs. It's not a question.

"I-it's nothing," she says, eyes flicking away from his.

"Lothiriel," Eomer says. "I know you well enough to know you do not cry for _nothing_."

She shakes her head. "Fine. It is not nothing, but I...please, Eomer. It is not my secret to tell."

That gives him pause; she would trust Duilin with such a thing, but not him? But that is neither right nor fair. It isn't her secret, and he knows how much she values being trusted with such things. To push her to tell him will upset her and perhaps put her in an uncomfortable situation with whomever the secret _does_ belong to.

"Fine," he agrees, albeit begrudgingly. "But you will tell me if there's anything I can do."

Lothiriel turns wide eyes on him. She blinks, once, and flushes when she realizes she's caused them to stop in the middle of one of the lanes leading back towards the market. Abruptly, she slides her hand into his and gives him a sharp tug. Far from unwilling, Eomer lets her lead him around the corner of one of the nearby houses.

"You are helping already," she says in a low tone, dropping his hand. "But I...I can think of one thing that might help more."

"Anything," he says, reaching to smooth a thumb along her cheek.

Lothiriel smiles, impossibly soft and tender-looking, before stepping closer and wrapping her arms around his waist, hiding her face away against his chest. What else can he do but hold her?

As if by habit, he strokes a hand through her hair, smiling against the crown of her head when she makes a small, pleased noise.

"If this is the sort of help you require, consider me always willing to provide," he says after a few minutes.

Eomer feels, rather than hears, her huff of laughter. She tips her head back to meet his eyes. "Hm. I think I will find myself in need of a lot of help. Daily. Hourly, if possible."

He groans, leaning down to steal a brief kiss. " _Cwealmbealu_."

Lothiriel laughs. "I cannot decide if that is better or worse than 'prickly princess'-"

"Worse," he assures her. "Decidedly worse."

She leans her head back against his chest. "Thank you, Eomer," she finally murmurs after a moment of silence.

There is something in her voice that makes him wary-it is...too serious for the lighthearted turn their conversation had taken. "Are you sure you are well?"

Lothiriel gives a nod, tightening her arms around him before releasing him. "I am sure. But enough about me. How was the council today?"

It is an obvious and pointed change in topic. But Eomer does not have the heart-nor, frankly, the desire-to force her to talk about something she doesn't wish to.

"It went well," he says, offering Lothiriel his elbow again. "We managed to successfully determine Eowyn's dowry."

Her face lights up at that, her interest genuine and sincere in a way that makes warmth bloom in his chest. He'd always hoped, in the back of his mind, that any woman he would wed would at least be polite and friendly towards Eowyn. But Lothiriel's affection for his sister goes past politeness and friendliness. It only raises her higher in his estimation, to see how much she cares for one of the people dearest to him.

It's what prompts him to press a kiss to the back of her knuckles when they're less than ten paces from Meduseld's doors.

Lothiriel, unsurprisingly, blushes. "Eomer…"

"Not appropriate?" He teases.

She elbows him in response.

Much to his surprise, Erchirion makes no comment when they arrive in the hall together, clearly without a chaperone. In fact, he barely lifts his eyes from his plate unless he is directly spoken to. The prince is prone to quiet contemplation, yes, but this borders on...well, brooding.

Abruptly, Eomer knows that whatever secret Lothiriel is keeping has to do with her brother. He also knows, inexplicably, that it is not a pleasant one.

 _Bema áhilpeþ mec,_ he thinks.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So I realize this chapter was a doozie, on a number of fronts, so I will do my absolute best to break it down so y'all can see where I'm coming from.

 **Erchirion and Lisswyn:** As many of you guessed, there's a problem here and it's spelled B-A-B-Y. Not only are they dealing with an unwed pregnancy-which is a No-Go in Gondorian society-but also with EXPLICIT direction from Imrahil and Dejah about not getting married without the family's blessing. As touched upon in an earlier chapter, in Rohirric tradition, the only permission you need to get betrothed/wed is the lady in question's. But, as Erchrion is 1) not from Rohan and 2) you know, a PRINCE, this makes things a lot more complicated for them. The reaction Lothiriel described in Gondor's courts is fairly common based. Conversely, as Duilin touched on, in Rohirric society, this wouldn't be anything to blink at if Erchirion and Lisswyn were betrothed. Betrothals are pretty much tantamount to marriage in Rohan, so it's not uncommon for babies to be born...quite a bit closer to the wedding than that would be acceptable/permissible in Gondor. But. Erchirion and Lisswyn AREN'T betrothed-he hasn't technically even given her any courting gifts, at least from Eothain and Eothred's standpoint, so this is. A giant mess, from top to bottom.

 **Eowyn's dowry** : Ok so I am not a historian, but given the research I did do on dowries, I wanted to make sure Eowyn had a pretty damn good one. She's Eomer's only living family, his beloved little sister, and she's marrying the second most important dude (and a Grade A Babe) in Gondor. The bride price-aka the money/goods/etc a groom's family gives the bride's for the "loss of her fertility" for their family (ew) will be touched on in later chapters.

 **Duilin's suggestion:** I wavered on whether or not to include this at all, because a few people seem to be misunderstanding Duilin's character as a crotchety old man who doesn't respect Eomer. 1) Duilin loves Eomer, but he is a crotchety old man and like many crotchety old men, has a bad habit of jumping to conclusions. 2) I realize that abortion is and has been a polarizing issue. I do not mention it lightly and certainly not for shock value. But Duilin's logic is based on the fact that if there is no baby, there would be no potential diplomatic disaster, otherwise known as Eothain murdering Erchirion for not doing right by Lisswyn. And the ramifications he and Lothiriel worry about-that it might affect Faramir and Eowyn's betrothal, as Erchirion is Faramir's direct relative, and you know, a prince-not to mention what it means for Lothiriel and Eomer, who are in a much more precarious position as no one in Gondor knows about their courtship. Duilin is not some evil baby-killer, and neither are the women that Lothiriel mentions that her mother has told her about.

To be clear, this fic is neither praising nor condemning abortion. I have never had one and personally, would never have one. But that's my body and my choice, as it should be for every other woman in the world.

 **Eomer and Lothiriel:** Another make-out scene didn't seem to quite fit the mood here, and I wanted to show that they're still growing in their emotional intimacy along with the physical.

 **Terms:**  
friþhengest: stallion, horse  
áwierigung: a curse, cursed  
cwealmbealu: death of me  
Bema áhilpeþ mec: Bema help me


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:** Hello again, friends! Many apologies for the long absence; this chapter gave me absolute fits and I had to rewrite a few parts numerous times until I was satisfied with them. But, I hope you'll enjoy it! As always, thank y'all so so much for the awesome reviews and questions-if I haven't gotten back to you yet, I will soon.

Fair warning, there's a little bit of a Moment for our favorite pair towards the end of this chapter-nothing graphic, but certainly sensual-so if that makes you uncomfortable, skip after "What outcome?".

I'm also available over on tumblr at **theemightypen** for questions, comments, concerns, and, of course, prompts!

And now, onward! This is a pretty dialogue heavy chapter, and family is the topic on hand :)

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

* * *

Her eyes ache with tiredness, but no matter which position she tries, she cannot fall asleep. Erchirion's blank face keeps floating in her mind's eye-he had been so quiet at dinner that even Eofor had noticed.

 _Damn my temper_ , she thinks. Mad as she is at him, at the situation, yelling at him had done little good. She knows his heart. A better course of action would to have been to sit, to listen, to help him understand-

Groaning, Lothiriel drags herself to her feet. There is enough light left by the dying embers of the fire that she can find her dressing gown, and on second thought, her cloak as well. It is still cold inside the hall, after all. The walk to her brother's rooms is short, but Lothiriel finds herself hesitating outside the door. There is a good chance he will be asleep. Or lack a desire to talk to her at all-it is not as if they parted under pleasant circumstances, with her ignoring the clear anguish in his voice as she pulled the door shut-

She shakes her head to clear it. There is no sense dwelling on what has already been done. Steeling herself, she taps the door in the pattern she and her brothers have used since childhood. It opens not a minute later, revealing Erchirion's face.

"I could not sleep," she whispers.

Her brother smiles, despite the lingering worry in his expression. "That makes two of us."

Erchirion steps back to allow her into the room. The fire is still bright, illuminating the half empty pitcher of wine and the tousled blankets in the chair he'd obviously been occupying before her knock. The signs of his obvious disquiet only serve to heighten her guilt, despite the small voice in the back of her mind that sounds suspiciously like Alycia reminding her that she had not been _all_ wrong in what she had said.

"I am sorry!" Lothiriel blurts, once they've both settled into their respective chairs. "I do not regret what I said if it made you think, Erchirion, but I could have said it in a kinder way. You and Lisswyn and the child...you will need every ally you can, not someone to point out all of the things that are stacked against you-"

"Lothiriel, peace," Erchirion interrupts, reaching out to take her hands. "If we are apologizing, I should be the one doing so. I have been a fool, and you were right to tell me so."

She can only blink at him in surprise. "What?"

"You were right," he repeats. "I did not consider how far-reaching this will be. For Lisswyn, for our child, for our family..." At this he scrubs a hand over his face. "I have no good reason for my stupidity other than I love Lisswyn. And even that falls flat, because my loving her has only served to make her life harder-"

"Do not say such things!" She says. "Oh, Erchirion. I have heard it from her mouth myself, how much she loves you, how happy loving you has made her. Messy as this has become, would you take it back if you could?" Lothiriel flushes pink as he arches an eyebrow at her. "Loving Lisswyn, you twit, not...lying with her."

"No," Erchirion responds, instantly, "not for one minute. Lisswyn...she is what I fought for."

Lothiriel knows she must look as confused as she feels, if Erchirion's sudden wry smile is anything to go by. "I do not understand," she says. And she doesn't; Lisswyn and Erchirion had not met until well after the War's ending. How could it have been her she fought for, if he hadn't known her?

"You know me, Lothiriel. I was not a soldier for glory, nor for love of battle. I fought because I had to, because to not fight against an evil like that would be the same as siding with it. But I took no pleasure in it. Elphir would have fought a thousand men, a thousand Orcs, and been content to do so, knowing it would keep Alycia and Alphros safe. Amrothos has that fire, that intense sense of purpose, of righteousness...I suspect that is why Ada gave him control of the fleet. He'll be a formidable enemy for the Corsairs. But I...I would have thrown down my sword for a moment of peace. To close my eyes and not see the dead and the injured behind them. I could feel pieces of myself falling beside them on the battlefield and I was helpless to stop it."

Lothiriel's heart gives an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. She knows, she's always known, how the violence her brothers have lived through has affected Erchirion the most deeply. But as close as they are, drawing his true emotions out of him is no easy feat, and to hear him speak so candidly…"Erchirion…"

He squeezes her fingers, as if she is the one who needs comfort. "I thought those pieces of myself lost. How could I even think of wanting tenderness, or softness, after so much death? But with Lisswyn...it is as if she kept the seeds of such things in her hands, lying in wait until I could hold them again without fear, without reserve."

 _The Poet Prince_ , Lothiriel thinks, fondly, remembering what Dol Amroth's court has long called her middle brother.

"How could I do anything else but love her, Lothiriel?" He asks. "Foolish I have been, and irresponsible, but I feel more like myself now than I have in _years_."

It breaks her heart, just a little. How could she not have seen? "Why did you not say anything?"

That draws a smile out of him, and he taps her nose. "Your heart is just as soft as mine, little flower. It did not feel right to burden you with such darkness."

"I am no child," she reminds him, "and I would have been glad to listen, even if I could not fully understand."

His eyes search her face. Whatever he sees there makes him sigh, and nod resignedly. "I see that now. But I do not regret keeping it from you. Nor that it was Lisswyn to give me my peace back. I only regret that our joy at finding each other cannot simply be what it is."

"I am sorry, too." Lothiriel says. "What will you two do? What does Lisswyn want?"

Erchirion huffs a laugh. "The same as I do. To wed and live happily, with Darwyn and our child, and the wagging tongues be damned."

"A happy picture," she says. "But I do not think it will be that simple."

"No," he admits. "We let our happiness blind us to the realities of the situation. In Dol Amroth, my reserve would hardly be out of the ordinary for a courting man, but here...I fear Eothain and Eothred will think me cowardly, or untrue, for not having been more open with how I feel about Lisswyn."

"Eothred will be more sympathetic, I think," she says, cautiously, "but Eothain...reserve is not something he understands. Not when it comes to expressing one's love, at least."

"An understatement if there ever was one," Erchirion says. "Can you imagine what Minas Tirith's court would make of him and Wilfled?"

"Oh, they'd be utterly scandalized," Lothiriel agrees with a smile, despite the seriousness of the situation. "But I think Lisswyn's family will be the easier of the two to placate. Ada and Naneth... they have already asked you to wait-"

"I will have to fail them, this once," he interrupts. "I will not return to Gondor without Lisswyn as my wife."

"Should you return to Gondor?" She asks. Now that she has had time to think, to breathe, the situation does not seem as entirely dire as she'd originally thought. Complicated, to be sure, and likely to cause no small amount of trouble, but not so bleak. "I think the Mark would be able to offer you and Lisswyn a less scrutinized life. People will still talk, but the Eorlingas value deeds over words. If you show yourself to be a good husband to Lisswyn, and a good father to your child, they will forgive the hastiness of your marriage more quickly than our own people would."

Erchirion gives her a searching look. "You truly do understand them, don't you?"

At this, Lothiriel flushes. Twisting a strand of hair around her finger, she says, "I am trying to. Their culture is no less interesting and complex than our own."

In truth, there are many aspects of Rohan's culture that she prefers to Gondor's. Much as she longs for the more sedate balls of Dol Amroth, or a leisurely afternoon spent at sea with friends and family, Lothiriel is not sure how well she will be able to go back to such mundane pursuits. Not to mention that after months spent alongside such open, straight-forward people, the thought of having to paste on a courtier's smile again is an exhausting one. Aragorn and Arwen's rule will likely help to change the mood of the courts, but even monarchs such as they cannot invoke change overnight.

"Perhaps I'll pledge my service to your King," Erchirion murmurs, clearly unaware of her inner turmoil, "and then again to you, when you become Queen of this place-"

"Don't," she says, sharply. "That is not something we can talk of in terms of certainty."

Her brother blinks at her. "You cannot tell me you doubt Eomer."

"No," Lothiriel answers, "never. But we _are_ only courting, and Ada and Naneth know nothing of it. In the wake of your marriage to Lisswyn, I worry that they will think we have been...similarly rash."

"Elbereth, Lothiriel, Lisswyn and my actions will not poison them against Eomer! You know how much Ada admires him. They know his honor, and I will be the first to tell them how properly he has gone about courting you-"

Lothiriel's cheeks flush guiltily-Eomer _has_ been proper, by Rohan's standards, but Ada would no doubt take issue with the King of the Mark kissing her in a stable or hidden behind the bushes of Morwen Queen's garden-

Erchirion's sudden groan startles her out of her reverie. "Valar be good, Lothiriel, do not tell me I have been mistaken-"

"No!" She cries, cursing her readable face. "No, Erchirion, he has done nothing to dishonor me. And," at this she gives him a stern look, "it is not as if you would have the right to lecture if he _had_. I am not the one due to become a parent in a few months time, after all."

Her brother's face floods with color. "It-it is _different_ , Lisswyn had been married already and I am-"

"An honorable man? An older brother?" She asks with an arch of an eyebrow. "Someone who courts with marriage in mind?"

Erchirion's mouth snaps shut. "I deserve that," he begrudgingly admits.

"Yes," she agrees. And there is still so much to talk about, so much she wants to ask him-what is he planning on saying to Eothred and Eothain? If he and Lisswyn were to remain in the Mark, what would he do to provide for their family? Has he considered Ada and Naneth's reaction beyond the initial outrage?-but she finds herself yawning instead.

"It is late," he says, smiling at her. "And now I think we've talked enough that you will not keep yourself up with fretting."

"As if you were not doing the same!" Lothiriel protests-but her outrage is marred by another yawn, this one larger than the last.

"True," Erchirion agrees. "But mine was more deserved than yours."

Lothiriel stands, stretching before moving towards the door. Erchirion's hand catches hers before she can pull it open, and she can't help but give a soft laugh as he moves his thumb over hers in a familiar motion. A relic of their childhood, a sign of secrets and promises kept.

"I know I have not been the brother you deserve lately," he says, his words at war with the light-heartedness of the gesture, "but Thiri, you should know how proud I am of you. Of the woman you are becoming."

"Oh," she breathes. In truth, she is still worried for him, for Lisswyn, for their child, and the ripples that will follow when the situation comes to light. But oh, how she loves him. Her best, her most foolish, her most tender-hearted brother. "There has never been a luckier sister than me, to have such a brother."

Erchirion ducks his head-even he cannot fight blushes, it would seem.

The gentle tap he gives her nose before letting her leave lingers, even as she snuggles down into her blankets.

 _Perhaps it will not go so ill,_ she thinks, _after all, what has the War taught us, if not to hold to hope?_

* * *

The dull-throbbing behind his temples only worsens when his page arrives with another stack of papers from the council.

Eomer had not slept well, and the strain of a mostly sleepless night is starting to take its toll. He knows he must have dreamed unpleasant things, but mercifully, cannot seem to remember any of them, other than he'd woken himself four times, drenched in sweat and reaching for the dagger he can't bring himself to keep from stowing away under his pillow.

Still, these missives must be attended to, headache or no headache. But the words all blur together. After re-reading the same line for the fifth time, he groans, flinging the paper back on his desk.

He should have called for something to ease the pain the minute he'd left his room, but he'd tried to convince himself that it would fade as the morning wore on.

Eomer has cursed his stubbornness many times in his life, and can only do it again now.

Briefly, he toys with the idea of sending for Lothiriel-she's become well-trained in the healing arts, under Duilin's tutelage, and likely knows how to treat a headache. The thought alone is nearly enough to banish it; her fingers pressing gently against his temples, the sweet smell of jasmine that always seems to follow her in the air, the brush of her lips, warm and soft, over his-

Groaning anew, he presses his hands over his eyes. Tempting as asking Lothiriel for aid is, he doubts her brother would look kindly on him asking her, unchaperoned, into his rooms. And there is the distinct possibility he would do something decidedly outside the realms of "appropriate wooing"-like pressing her against his desk and kissing her until neither of them can breathe properly-

"Freca!" He barks, trying to banish the mental image and the swift swoop of lust it brings with it from his mind.

His page peeks in from the door. "Sire?"

"Find Master Duilin," Eomer says. "Tell him I need one of his _héafodece drenc_."

He tries to read the missives again to fill the time it will take for Freca to reach the Master Healer's shop, but the words remain meaningless.

Much to his surprise, it's not his page who pushes the door open a few minutes later, but the cantankerous Master Healer himself.

"Duilin, you need not have walked all this way in the cold," he says. Duilin is not a young man by any means and has to rely on a wooden cane during the winter.

The older man tuts at him. "I can manage the walk from my shop to your door well enough, Eomer King. My joints are not worth the King of the Mark expiring from a headache."

Eomer rolls his eyes. "It is hardly so dire as that."

Duilin huffs. "I'll determine that, boy."

Despite their gnarled appearance, Duilin's hands are deft as they measure out the appropriate herbs. Eomer knows the smell of white willow bark well enough and begrudgingly accepts the cup offered to him once the powder has been mixed in.

The healer prods him a little once he's finished the drink; peers into his eyes, presses his fingers to the pulse at his neck.

"Hm," he says. "Too little sleep and too little water. Did you have too much ale?"

"None at all," Eomer says. It's a fair question-normally, he's not above having a mug or two at dinner, even on nights of no importance. But last night he'd been too preoccupied with Erchiron's strange melancholy, and Lothiriel's nearly brittle brightness, trying to keep others from noticing it as well to even think of ale.

Duilin's face changes, softens. "Nightmares, then."

Eomer nods. The healer has known him and Eowyn since childhood and has sharper eyes than most, regardless. "I cannot recall any of them, but I think that might be for the best."

Duilin digs through his pack before pulling out a pack of dried, but still bright-white, flowers. "Chamomile should help you sleep. It would be better if it were fresh, but it's too late in the year for that. I'll see that Merthwyn makes a tea for you tonight."

"Thank you, Duilin," he says.

The older man huffs, but Eomer knows him well enough to read the hidden affection in his crossed arms, the smile just barely visible in his eyes. "The entirety of the Mark would have my head if something were to happen to you, boy, not to mention what your _þyrnihtu cwén_ would say. "

Eomer smiles briefly at the thought-he suspects Lothiriel is too fond of her teacher to ever truly be cross with him-before the memory of her tears yesterday floats back. He turns in his chair, fixing Duilin with as steady of a look as he can manage.

Duilin merely arches a brow, clearly unimpressed. "Is there something else you require, Eomer King?"

Eomer can recall a time when that look alone would have sent him running-even Theodred, Duilin's favorite, had known better than to test his luck with that look. But Eomer is not ten years old any more. He is a King and a warrior, and has faced down much more frightening things than a short healer close to his eightieth winter.

Still, he makes sure to nudge Duilin's cane further away from him with the toe of his boot.

"I will not ask you to break her confidence," Eomer says, slowly, cautiously, "but if there is anything I should be doing...that I can do, to help Lothiriel with whatever upset her so badly yesterday, I would know."

There's no mistaking the look of surprise on Duilin's face. Surprise and something like...awe. It's a look Eomer has rarely seen directed at him over the years. Duilin has always been softer with Eowyn, and he and Theodred had had the bond of grandson and grandfather. It's not that Eomer ever doubted that the older man was fond of him, but they were so fundamentally different that it made _sense_ that he was sharper, harsher, with him. Duilin lives to heal, to mend; Eomer has had a warrior's mentality since men brought his father's broken body back to Aldburg. Even as a child, he could handle Duilin's whip-sharp reprimands, his astute critiques, and see them for what they were. Not cruelty, merely the older man's own way of preparing him for what he would face in an eored, as a leader.

Duilin pulls his perpetual hat from his head and Eomer is struck by how _old_ he looks. How fragile.

"Valar smite me," he grumbles, rubbing at his bald scalp. "You look so much like your father that I forget that you are Theodwyn's son, too."

Eomer blinks in surprise. "Meaning?"

Duilin chuckles, shaking his head. "All your life you have been warned about Eomund's recklessness, his love of battle-both to his credit, and to his folly. You have grown to be so like him, in many ways, but the fact that you would ask such a thing...it is your mother's heart I hear in the asking. I had not realized how much I missed it until now."

 _My mother's heart_ , he thinks. Eomer is not sure it is a good thing to possess; after all, hadn't it been her heart that had called her to leave him and Eowyn, to follow their father into the grave? Having such a heart is a dangerous thing.

Duilin must see some of the conflict in his face, because he strides over to rest a gnarled hand on his shoulder, and squeezes. "Your mother's heart was the most beautiful thing about her. Oh, the bards sang songs of her loveliness, your uncle's eored was enamored of her riding abilities...but it was her heart that won her friends. It was her heart that your father had to prove himself worthy of, not her title as princess. Never have I known another who loved as well, as fiercely, as Theodwyn, daughter of Morwen."

"To her ruin," Eomer murmurs. "Do not forget it was that love that drained the life from her-"

Duilin flinches back. "What? How can you say such a thing?"

It is Eomer's turn to look surprised. "Everyone in Aldburg thinks it. _Helle_ , Duilin, half of Edoras, and no small number of the rest of the Eorlingas would say the same."

"Superstitious _fools_!" The healer hisses. "Eomer, I swear by the Valar that it was not a weakness of spirit that killed your mother. She was already ill before your father fell, and while grief may have accelerated her sickness, it was not heartache that took her life."

If the older man had punched him in the stomach, Eomer would have been less surprised. "What? But Bledgifu-even Uncle-"

"You and Eowyn were children when she passed," Duilin interrupts, "children who had just lost both parents. What better comfort could they give you than the knowledge that they were together, if they could not be with you?" At this, he scowls. "Though I would have hoped someone would have told the two of you the truth of the matter, in the nearly twenty years between now and then!"

He's abruptly glad that he is already sitting, and that it is just him and the Master Healer in his study. Bema only knows what his councilors, his marshals, would make of the near tears in his eyes. "So...Modor did not...it was not-"

"It was not of her making," Duilin says, voice soft. "Surely you do not doubt how much she loved you and your sister."

Memories of his mother are faded, foggy due to too many nights spent thinking about them, and equally as many spent trying _not_ to think of them. He can just barely recall the shape of her smile, the gentleness with which she'd combed his and Eowyn's hair, the lilt to her voice whenever she'd welcomed Faeder back to the hall...no, he cannot doubt it.

He reaches up to give Duilin's hand a squeeze. They're silent for a moment, both lost in memories.

Abruptly, Duilin clears his throat. "As for the matter of Lothiriel...offer her comfort, if she asks it of you. Distract her, if you can-in an appropriate manner," this, he punctuates with a sharp jab to Eomer's chest, "and do not feel slighted if she doesn't tell you the reason behind her disquiet. It is truly not her story to tell."

"She said as much yesterday," Eomer murmurs. "But Bema, Duilin, I feel...helpless, for not being able to do more. She deserves...she should be _happy_ -"

Duilin's grin is smug now, and the chuckle he gives is nearly as frightening as one of Aragorn's. "Theodwyn's heart indeed. At least I know her to be worthy of it, and of you. The best thing you can do for our _þyrnihtu cwén_ is to continue on as you have. Clearly it's worked well enough thus far."

Eomer can feel his cheeks burn but attempts a dignified nod of acknowledgement.

Duilin's snort tells him he likely looks more little boy than warrior king, and he nudges the healer with his shoulder. "Away with you, old man. I've taken up enough of your time."

"This old man always has time for Eomer, son of Eomund," Duilin says, setting his hat back on his head. "Even when he sounds like a lovestruck youth."

Eomer groans good-naturedly as Duilin hobbles out of the room.

Already, the white willow bark has helped-the words on the missives look less like meaningless scribbles-but still, he finds himself sitting, staring into space.

 _Eowyn needs to know about Modor_ , he thinks. It won't be an easy conversation; Eowyn's grief for their mother had taken a bitter tint as she'd grown older. Even now, deeply in love with Faramir, he knows she scoffs at the idea of letting that love-or its loss-drain the life from her. Knowing that their mother had been ill, truly ill, that she hadn't merely given up on life without their father in it...he suspects it will not be an easy thing for her to learn, but something she should hear, nonetheless.

Resolving to talk to her after the evening meal, he attempts to focus on the missives once more.

* * *

Lothiriel is on edge for two days before she succeeds in forcing herself to not obsess over Erchirion and Lisswyn's eventual reveal. They are, as Duilin had said, both grown people, and entirely capable of handling themselves.

She _does_ insist on talking to Lisswyn, herself, just to hear from the other woman's mouth what she expects, what she wants.

Lisswyn has been more aware of the challenges of their relationship and the child from the start, and it only serves to raise her higher in Lothiriel's estimation.

"I will not pretend that this is how I wanted this to happen," she admits, running a hand over her still flat stomach, "but every child is a blessing from Vana, and this little one will be no different."

"Of course," Lothiriel agrees. "And my parents are not unreasonable people. I cannot say they will be pleased that you two were so...so.."

"Irresponsible?" The older woman offers, expression sheepish.

"Well, yes. But they were young and in love once. And after meeting you and Darwyn, I have no doubt they will happily welcome you both into our family."

Lisswyn's cheeks flush a delicate pink. "Will...will you tell me more about them? I know they must be good people, to have raised you and Erchirion, but I...it is so different. With Widfara's family, I had known them all since childhood. My mother-in-law was a proud woman, but kind, and my father-in-law had a laugh that you could hear across three fields. The only thing I know about your parents are their names."

Lothiriel makes a mental reminder to kick Erchrion the next time she sees him. "What would you like to know?"

Everything, as it turns out. So she tells Lisswyn how Ada and Naneth met, their long courtship, her grandfather's grudging approval. Of Ada's keen wit, his sharp eyes, how even the best of liars cannot fool him. Naneth's steady hands, her years of healing, the way she can pull secrets even from Erchirion with an elegantly arched eyebrow.

Lisswyn relaxes, inch by inch, the more Lothiriel talks. She's smiling widely when she finishes a story about Ada and Elphir returning from some diplomatic meeting only to find the rest of the family in the kitchens, squabbling over which of their favorite meals they should prepare, and laughs outright when she describes the time Ada had caught Amrothos and Erchirion swimming drunkenly in one of the fountains.

"Your family sounds wonderful," Lisswyn says.

"They are," agrees Lothiriel, reaching over to squeeze one of her hands, "and by adding you and Darwyn, we will only be more blessed."

And it would seem she and Lisswyn were not the only ones to have a discussion regarding family. Eowyn had been oddly silent for the better part of the morning until Lothiriel had been able to draw the reason behind it from her-Eomer had told her the truth of their mother's death. Illness, true illness, had taken Theodwyn's life, not the heartsickness that both of her children had long believed.

"I am glad to know," Eowyn murmurs, twisting her sleeve almost angrily in her lap, "but I have judged her, been angry with her, for so long. To find out that all of that anger has been misplaced…I can scarcely believe it."

"Duilin would not lie about something like this," Lothiriel says, "and even if he had, Eomer would have been able to tell."

"I know. And admit it gives me comfort that it was sickness that took her from us, rather than her own heartache, but…" Eowyn shakes her head. "I know I should forgive her, but I am still angry. Angry that we have had to live our lives without her, that my children will not have grandparents on either side."

"I am sorry for that, too," Lothiriel says, though as she says it, she cannot help but wince at the thought of Eowyn meeting Uncle Denethor. Faramir's Rohirric bride would have likely had some...choice words for the Steward, regarding his treatment of his younger son. For all of Denethor's steely strength, she is not sure if he would have emerged the victor. "But they will have an abundance of aunts and uncles to look after them, at least. And I can think of a few Hobbits who will happily teach them all sorts of mischief…"

Eowyn smiles, good humor returned at the thought of their small friends. "Did I tell you what Merry said in his latest letter? He's begun courting a Hobbit lass! Estella Bolger, whose brother is apparently called Fatty…"

Lothiriel smiles at the memory, even as Blodwyn wails in her arms. She's agreed to watch the babe while Wilfled takes a much needed trip to the markets. Eofor is out, enjoying the slowly melting snow, and Eothain...well, she's not entirely sure where Eothain is, except that he is not here.

"Shh, _lýtling_ ," she soothes, gently rocking her goddaughter. "They will never leave you alone with me again, if this is how we get along."

The rocking seems to help, and absent-mindedly Lothiriel begins to hum a song she remembers Naneth singing to her as a child.

 _A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain_

 _Softly blows o'er Lullaby Bay_

 _It fills the sails of boats that are waiting_

 _Waiting to sail your worries away_

Blodwyn blinks up at her, earlier sorrow or discomfort forgotten. Her eyes are the same beautiful blue as Wilfled's, and flutter shut as Lothiriel continues on.

 _It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain_

 _And your boat waits down by the quay_

 _The winds of night so softly are sighing_

 _Soon they will fly your troubles to the sea_

Someone-she assumes Wilfled, though she's back much sooner than expected, or perhaps Eothain, returned from his mysterious errand-opens the front door. She's too engrossed in Blodwyn's dreamy expression to look up. She runs a finger gently over her cheek-it's so impossibly soft, and round with the chubbiness of babyhood, that something in her aches, however sweetly.

 _So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain_

 _Wave goodbye to cares of the day_

 _And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain_

 _Sail far away from Lullaby Bay_

She waits, keeping her gentle rocking motion until she's certain the babe is truly asleep. "I think I've succeeded," she whispers, eyes still glued to Blodwyn's serene face, "would you like to hold her?"

"And ruin the picture you make?" Comes a voice that is decidedly _not_ Wilfled's or Eothain's. "Not for the wide world."

Forcing herself not to jump, lest she wake the babe, she looks up. Eomer is leaning against the wall nearest the front door, arms crossed. The look on his face makes her pulse race. It is not unlike how he'd looked at her in the stables, or in Morwen Queen's garden, but it is...tempered, somehow, with something sweeter than desire.

"I think you are just frightened to wake her," Lothiriel murmurs.

Eomer chuckles, lowly, pushing off the wall. "You know me too well, _þyrnihtu cwén_."

Regardless, he drifts closer, coming to stand at her side to peer down at Blodwyn's face. Slowly, with such gentleness that Lothiriel feels the irrational press of tears behind her eyes, his hand comes up to cup the babe's head, fitting over hers as he does so. Usually, being this close to him would set her blood-singing, but all she feels now is peace. Comfort. Home, if she's being completely honest with herself.

"She is so small," he whispers. "And so lovely."

"Wilfled is her mother," Lothiriel reminds him, with the ghost of a smile. "Of course she is lovely."

"Yes, but Eothain is her father," Eomer answers, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, "she could have easily ended up as scruffy as he is."

Lothiriel barely stifles a laugh, and they both freeze as Blodwyn stirs, turning in her arms to burrow closer into her chest. "I really should put her down…"

But Eomer's hand is still curled around hers, both of them on the back of Blodwyn's head. An innocent enough position, though she cannot help but realize that were the babe not present, there would be nothing between his hand and her-

Eomer's hand lifts and Lothiriel turns, as quickly as she can with Blodwyn in her arms, hoping he will not notice her blush.

Once she is sure Blodwyn is settled in her cradle in Wilfled and Eothain's room, she returns to find Eomer still waiting for her.

"I did not know you could sing," he says.

Feeling her face flush again, she shrugs. "My voice is fair, I suppose. Nothing to compare with Eowyn's, or any of the other ladies I've heard in Edoras."

"Blodwyn seemed to deem it pretty enough."

"Blodwyn is an infant," Lothiriel argues. "Anyone who can hold a tune would be deemed passable."

Eomer rolls his eyes at her, before reaching out to crook his finger under her chin. "What of a king's judgment, then? If I were to tell you your voice is lovely, would you concede it?"

He brushes his thumb over her lower lip, and smiles when she shivers. "Fine. Yes. _Cheater_ ," she tells him.

"It's hardly cheating if we both like the outcome," Eomer counters.

"What outcome?" She asks, though she suspects she knows the answer.

He bends to press his mouth to hers. It is meant to be a gentle kiss, teasing and soft, but Lothiriel thinks of the look in his eyes when he'd been leaning against the wall, the heat of his hand over hers holding Blodwyn, and finds herself stretching up to press closer. They've kissed like this before, but never so completely alone. With everything that's happening with Lisswyn and Erchirion, she should be cautious, careful, but Valar help her, she wants to be selfish, just this once, just long enough to be certain she affects him as much as he does her.

So she finds herself pulling away just enough to trail a string of kisses along his jaw-his beard feels strange, against her lips, but not unpleasant-and is for once grateful for her short stature, for it makes it rather easy to balance on her toes, pressed up against the sturdy length of his body, and set her mouth against his neck.

Lothiriel has heard many a lecture given to Amrothos, about having such a mark, but Ada is not here, now, and frankly, she cannot bring herself to care. Eomer groans, sending all thoughts of anyone and anything except him from her mind. She can feel one of his hands, hot as a brand, at the base of her spine, and the other at the back of her neck.

All too soon, he's tugging her back just enough to kiss her properly again. She opens her mouth willingly, marveling at the hot slide of his tongue over hers-

Eomer pulls away, suddenly, and Lothiriel feels absurdly, horribly bereft.

At least she does until he grumbles, "You are so _small_ ," and abruptly lifts her, settling her on the table behind her.

They should stop, she knows that, she _knows_ that, they are in Wilfled and Eothain's home, with a sleeping child not a room over, but she wants-she _wants_ -

Lothiriel kisses him anew before logical thought can creep back in, and she has to suppress a blissful sigh at the sensation of his arms around her. The feeling sharpens, spikes, when she registers he's mimicking her move from earlier: a trail of kisses along her jaw before he finds her pulse under the hinge, sucking with just enough pressure that she cannot help the breathless gasp it forces out of her.

She's isn't consciously aware of moving her legs wide enough so that he can stand between them, only that suddenly he is, pressed closer than he has ever been. _That_ shocks them both enough into freezing, staring at each other with wide eyes.

Lothiriel blushes crimson, suddenly ashamed. Oh, Valar, what he must think of her! As if she is no better than a common strumpet, nearly losing herself to something as base as _lust_ -

Eomer's hands cupping her cheeks pulls her out of her rambling thoughts. "Whatever you are thinking, stop."

"How do you-"

He chuckles, just once, leaning to press his forehead against hers. "You are remarkably easy to read when you're flustered, _min swete_."

She can hardly deny something she knows to be true. "I am sorry," she whispers, "I-I do not know what came over me-"

He stops her with a kiss, this one thoroughly chaste, though still sweet. "Lothiriel, if you think you have done anything I would complain about, you are thoroughly mistaken."

That startles a laugh out of her and she twists, to better hide her face against his shoulder. Eomer's hand comes up to stroke her hair. They stay like that until their breathing has slowed and then he helps her clamour down from the table as gracefully as she can with her legs still feeling like a newborn foal's.

"I truly only meant to come and see if you and Blodwyn were well," Eomer admits. "I suspect the councilors will have run Gamling and Erkenbrand ragged in my absence."

"Go, then," she says, managing a smile despite her lingering embarrassment. "I will stay until Wilfled returns."

She turns, intending to wet a rag and wipe down the table, regardless of it being rather unnecessary, when Eomer's hands are suddenly on her hips, his chest pressed against her back.

"Make no mistake, _glómmung cwén_ , about how much I look forward to the day when we could continue without consequence," he murmurs, breath gusting hot and close over her ear.

He drops one final kiss to the juncture of her neck and shoulder before she feels the heat of him retreat. The door swings open and shut not a few moments later.

Lothiriel sags against the nearest wall.

 _Dear Elbereth_ , she thinks, _that man will be the death of me_.

* * *

Lothiriel of Dol Amroth has blushed many, many times in her life, but perhaps the most profound one that ever occurred happened when Wilfled returned from the market to find her scrubbing at the edge of the table with a dreamy expression on her face.

"Has the table done something to you?" Wilfled asks. "Or have you done something to it?"

Personally, Lothiriel considers it an achievement that she ever _stopped_ blushing, after that.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I know some of you are ready to murder me for continuing to draw out the Erchirion/Lisswyn situation, but there's a reason for that, I promise.

I'm sure Lothiriel's change of heart may seem sudden, but I've seen many people, once they've had their initial reaction to a bad situation be able to calm down and face it in a more rational manner. Yes, many of her original arguments are sound and definitely things Erchirion should have been considering, but yelling at an already upset person about the ways something they care deeply about could go wrong is many things, but helpful isn't necessarily one of them.

So. I love JRR Tolkien and the world he created for many, many reasons, but how he handled a good portion of his female characters isn't really one of them. So I've chosen to re-interpret Theodwyn's death in a way that's more palatable for me, and hopefully, still fits within canon boundaries. My godfather passed away a few years ago and my godmother was devastated; but she certainly didn't curl up and wait for her inevitable death because the man she loved died. In my mind, Theodwyn already being ill-in this instance I tend to imagine cancer, or whatever Middle Earth's equivalent is-before Eomund's death and that loss only helping her illness along makes much more sense to me than her simply giving up on life without him, especially since she had two young children. If this tweaking of canon is offensive to you, I apologize, but it just makes much more sense to me.

Also, I feel like I must have failed a few of you somehow, because Duilin's gruffness has apparently been interpreted by some as him not caring for or respecting Eomer. Hence their little chat. Duilin is far from perfect, of course, but I definitely wanted to shine a light on why he behaves the way he does with Eomer. Also, it should be noted that Theodwyn was his favorite of Morwen's children.

The lullabye Lothiriel sings is obviously not of my invention-it's _Hushabye Mountain_ , written by the incomparable Tony Bennett. It can be found in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang as well, sung by Dick Van Dyke, if you're curious as to what it sounded like. Finding an appropriate lullabye for the LOTR verse is hard, y'all, but I thought the lyrics were pretty fitting as a song from Dol Amroth.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** I live! And so does the story! Too Wise actually celebrated its one year anniversary during the interim, and WOW guys, I can't thank y'all enough for coming on this journey with me. And there's still more to come!

Sorry this has taken a little longer than usual, but I'll level with y'all: I had my confidence shaken by a couple of sharp reviews and messages. But I've also had an overwhelming amount of support and encouragement from my sweet beta and good number of y'all, so hopefully the normal writing schedule will resume now.

Also, I'm still available over on tumblr at **theemightypen** for those interested!

And now, onwards! A certain situation comes to a head, in rather spectacular fashion...

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

* * *

There's still snow on the ground, but the morning isn't as bitterly cold as the ones that have come before it.

"Spring isn't far off now," says Merthwyn as she settles their breakfast plates in front of them.

"It is far enough," grumbles Eowyn, poking listlessly at her food. "It feels as if this winter has dragged on for an Age."

Lothiriel hides a smile behind her hand. She remembers Elphir being just as antsy, as sullen, during the months between his and Alycia's betrothal and her arrival in Dol Amroth for their wedding. It would seem Eowyn suffers from a similar vexation. And she certainly has every right to be cross; given the thick snows, all correspondence from Gondor has slowed, if it is able to reach Edoras at all.

(And Eowyn's dour mood gives her something to think of other than the ever-present worry about Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation. To her knowledge, they still have not told Eothain, nor Eothred, and Lothiriel does not particularly want to dwell on how _that_ conversation will likely go.)

"I am sure Faramir feels much the same," she says. "And I am also sure he would not thank me for letting you grow melancholy if it was in my power to stop it. Shall I distract you with another lesson?"

"Oh, Lothiriel, no," groans Eowyn. "There cannot be anything more I need to learn about how to properly seat a large dinner party, or how to manage Ithillien's finances-"

Lothiriel shrugs, smirking. "No? Perhaps you'd rather discuss the latest Gondorian fashions-"

This elicits another pained groan from her friend. Grinning widely now, Lothiriel rests her chin in her hand, continuing on: "Dresses are out, too? Hm. What will you make small talk with the ladies of Minas Tirith with, if all of these subjects are distasteful to you?"

"Bema forbid we discuss sensible things," Eowyn says. "I cannot believe that the women of your country only ever discuss pretty frocks and seating arrangements."

"True enough," Lothiriel agrees, "sometimes even the weather is deemed an appropriate topic of conversation."

Eowyn swats her, her lips twitching with amusement despite the stern look she gives her. "You are horrid."

"And yet you have agreed to marry into my family," she retorts. "One must wonder if you are horrid too."

That earns her a harder smack, and draws an amused snort from Merthwyn.

"Be serious, Lothiriel," Eowyn says. "Am I really to expect only surface level conversations every time I visit Minas Tirith?"

Lothiriel sobers at the hesitant look on Eowyn's face. "No. Much as I dislike much of the Court's manners, many of its ladies are happy to discuss other things besides needlework and marriage prospects. Some of them have a knowledge of military things, by proxy of fathers, husbands, or brothers. More still take a deep interest in art and music. A few who are only children, who stand to inherit wealth and status, if not actual power, are fairly knowledgeable about the ins and outs of the respective provinces. Widows, too, have this knowledge. About feuds between merchants, where food shortages hit the hardest, or the quickest trade routes."

"But those are not considered acceptable topics," Eowyn says with a frown.

"Perhaps not when first meeting a new lady," Lothiriel concedes. "But many of Faramir's friends are married to practical women. I am sure you will find friendship and conversation aplenty with them."

"Mm," she hums, noncommittal. "And I am equally sure I will not like any of them as much as I like you."

"You are biased," Lothiriel reminds her. "And partially obligated to like me, as I am to be your cousin."

"Cousin and sis-" Eowyn starts to say, before Lothiriel pinches her side to silence her.

They grin at each other for a moment before Eowyn speaks again. "So. Which of those acceptable-but-not-entirely-proper topics do you take most interest in? I know you love music, but surely as a princess, you have had to learn about things of more substance as well."

"I know as much as you when it comes to seating arrangements and finances," Lothiriel says. "Though lately I have found myself more interested in the idea of trade."

"With the War at an end, it should make it easier," Eowyn agrees. "But what passes as payment in Gondor is vastly different than what we of the Mark would consider acceptable."

It's true. Gondor, with all of its wealth, has a set system of coins and other monies. Rohan, on the other hand, relies on the exchanging of goods or services. Both have merits in their own right, but leave entirely too much room for miscommunication between people of either country. Coins would do a hungry family little good in the Mark, and most Gondorian merchants would scoff at the idea of trading valuable silks for a number of chickens.

"I wonder if Aragorn and Eomer will not have to come up with some sort of compromise," Eowyn murmurs. "For trade between Gondor and Rohan can only benefit us both."

"And if other allies were to be factored into the mix-" Lothiriel starts.

"Other allies?" Eowyn echoes. "Meaning whom?"

"My father brokered an agreement with some of the Umbarians when Elphir married Alycia. And now that Eomer and Aragorn have struck a truce with the Dunlendings-"

"We could all reap the rewards," says Eowyn. "That is. Hm. Torfrith!"

The older man-indeed, half of the hall-looks up in surprise at Eowyn's sudden outburst.

"My lady?" He says, rising to his feet. "Do you have need of me?"

Lothiriel has not gotten to know Meduseld's Chief Scribe the way she has a few of the other council members, but he has always struck her as a shrewd man, and an opinionated one.

"We have a question for you," Eowyn answers.

"Perhaps I might be of assistance as well," says another councilor-Ordlac, Lothiriel thinks-drifting over as he speaks.

The two men eye each other speculatively, suspiciously. Lothiriel is not unfamiliar to such displays in Gondor's courts, between veteran politicians. Perhaps some things are simply universal.

Ordlac looks intrigued by the idea of facilitating trade across the newly allied parties, where Torfrith-his bushy eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed-looks distinctly against the idea.

"It is simply not done," the older man says. "It would be one thing to build trading routes with Gondor, who have proven themselves to be our true friends, but with the Dunlendings-what if they plan treachery? Or swindle us out of the value of our food? It is not as if the Mark has much to spare."

"But think of all the good it could bring," Lothiriel argues, "every party involved has something the other lacks."

"And every party stands to lose things of significant value, if it were to go ill," Ordlac adds. "But there is much to be gained, also."

Torfrith blinks at the other man. "You cannot be thinking of promoting such a thing, Ordlac."

"The idea as it stands now? No. It is not an equal arrangement. Gondor would have too much financial power over the other three and the Mark would arguably be the most vulnerable physically, with the majority of the routes in our lands. The Dunlendings are not a united people-who is to say all of the tribes would even agree to such a plan? And as for Umbar...they are unknown to us."

Lothiriel bites down on her tongue to keep from speaking. Ordlac's points are sound, but so...pessimistic!

"But," he says, suddenly, "the concept has merit. If the council were to put their minds to it, and invite representatives from all parties to offer their own suggestions…" He trails off, clearly lost in thought.

"'Tis a young person's dream," Torfrith grumbles. "Filled with good intentions, but little wisdom."

"What is youth for, Lord Torfrith," Lothiriel finds herself saying, willing herself not to blush under the man's intense stare, "if not for good intentions and foolishness?"

Ordlac cannot hide his grin, even as the older man's frown deepens. "As a princess, I would have thought you to have more sense, my lady."

"I think she has sense aplenty," Ordlac interjects, "and heart enough to tell two old men that she is displeased that we lack her vision."

Torfrith harrumphs. "I think I will manage without the princess's _vision_. Good day, my ladies."

They watch him go, Lothiriel's heart feeling somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. Oh, she had not meant to offend him! She knows many of the older Eorlingas were dead-set against the idea of allying with the Dunlendings, and that the idea of introducing another, potentially treacherous ally, would be unappealing to many, despite the good it might bring. And Torfrith was well respected-if he spoke out against the trading routes, it is likely they would never occur-

"Do not let him fluster you, my lady," Ordlac says, startling her. "Torfrith is all bark and no bite. And used to be quite sympathetic to...unorthodox causes, in his day. Give him time to digest the idea and I have no doubt we will have his support."

"We?" Lothiriel says, in a dazed tone.

"Aye," he says, lifting her hand to his mouth for a polite kiss, "we, _glómmung cwén_."

Eowyn's hand receives a similar treatment before the older man turns, whistling cheerfully as he exits the hall.

A sudden shiver of awareness snakes up her spine, blessedly sparing her from being surprised when she hears Eomer say, "Making friends?"

"Suitors, more like," Eowyn teases as he comes to stand between them, "Beware, Eomer, or you may find Ordlac throwing his hat into the ring for Lothiriel's hand."

"I will have to double my efforts then," he murmurs, mimicking his counselor in raising Lothiriel's hand to press a kiss to its back. Unlike his counselor's, however, the feeling it evokes are anything but polite. Lothiriel's entire hand tingles, and she can feel herself flush from cheeks to chest.

It is on the tip of her tongue to retort that if he doubled his efforts any more, they would likely find themselves in as messy of a situation as her brother and Lisswyn-she cannot forget their interlude on poor, oblivious Wilfled's kitchen table, the overwhelming heat of him, the surprising but far-from-unwanted way he'd lifted her, settled between her legs like he'd been made for it-

Eowyn clearing her throat startles them both and Eomer quickly releases her hand.

"If ever you two call Faramir and I nauseating again, I am going to remind you of this precise moment," she says.

Lothiriel blushes deeper, if possible, while Eomer shifts awkwardly before giving a little lurch, looking at his sister with narrowed eyes. "Why would we have cause to call you and Faramir nauseating, _swestor_?"

It is Eowyn's turn to look discomforted, twisting the end of her braid around her finger. Merthwyn calls her name and she hurries off, relief plain on her face.

"On second thought, I do not think I want to know," Eomer decides, drawing a laugh from Lothiriel. "I am intrigued, however, to know what it was that sent Torfrith off in such a huff."

She bites her lip, suddenly anxious. She had not truly intended to bring the matter up with Eowyn, let alone any of the council members, and discussing it with Eomer is even more nerve-wracking. He has entered into a truce with the Dunlendings, yes, but the plan as it stands is in its infancy at best, and his approval means more to her than most. "It may come to naught and is therefore unimportant."

Eomer arches an eyebrow at her, clearly unconvinced. "I do not see how."

Lothiriel cocks her head to the side, confused. "What do you mean?"

Eomer's smile is a warm, private thing. "It clearly matters to you. Thus it cannot resemble anything unimportant."

She can feel her mouth fall open in-surprise? Awe?-and knows she must surely look comical, gaping at him as she is.

 _I love you_ , she thinks, unbidden, and can feel her face heat again at the thought. Oh, Elbereth, but she does. She likely has for weeks, now. But it's hardly something to declare in the middle of the hall, with curious eyes already on them, and Eomer's expression losing warmth the longer she lets the silence linger.

"Is this to be another secret I cannot ask about?" He asks, something like hurt in his tone.

Impulsively, instinctively, she reaches out to grasp his hand, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. "No," she says, firmly. "Ask me anything, Eomer."

His smile is back, this time with a teasing edge to it. "Anything?" He murmurs, his thumb sliding over her knuckles in a distracting swoop.

She opens her mouth to retort, but before she can, the doors to the hall swing open with a mighty thud. There are muffled curses as cold air billows in. Freca, Eomer's page, comes stumbling into view. Eomer groans, dropping her hand as other Eorlingas call out confused greetings to the boy.

"Eomer K-King!" He stutters. "Where is Eomer King?"

"Here, Freca," Eomer answers, voice cutting across the din of the hall. "What has happened?"

"He says he means to call for a _weorþgeorn hearmplega_ ," the boy says.

"An honor fight?" Eowyn repeats, clearly befuddled. "Who?"

"E-Eothain Captain," he manages, clearly still out of breath, "and Prince Erchirion, they-"

Lothiriel cannot help herself; she gasps. Loud enough to draw Eomer's attention, not to mention a good number of surrounding people.

"Loth-"

"We should go," she interrupts, panic and worry at war in her chest, all earlier happy thoughts banished, "Eomer, we should go now."

* * *

 _Bema alep mec_ , Eomer thinks, torn between concern and confusion. What reason would Eothain and Erchirion, of all people, have to engage in a _weorþgeorn hearmplega_? His friend is hot-headed, that is well-known, but Lothiriel's brother is anything but, despite his more recent bouts of melancholy.

Regardless, he is King, and must find the root of this discord and provide justice to whatever party has been wronged. Given the sudden pallor of Lothiriel's face, the problem between the two men is must be related to whatever secret had so upset her the week previously. But he can hardly ask her at the moment-they, along with a gaggle of curious onlookers, are nearing Wilfled and Eothain's home.

"Gamling," he says, giving his loyal friend a stern look. "Find Eothred. It is likely we will need all the help we can get in resolving this situation."

The older man gives a sharp nod before hurrying back off towards the marshal's lodgings.

Eomer rounds the corner and groans aloud at the sight that greets him: Eothain, red-faced and out of breath in his anger, is only kept back from the Gondorian prince by the resolute wall of Wilfled and Lisswyn's bodies.

Erchirion is sporting a sluggishly bleeding nose, but looks-mercifully-no worse for wear.

"Listen to me, Eothain," Lisswyn is saying, her normally sweet voice pinched with no small measure of irritation, "I do not ask you to do this-"

"I cannot understand you!" Eothain cries, interrupting her. "How-how can you stand here and defend this-this- _hrot_ , who has dishonored you in every way-"

"I do not feel dishonored!" She retorts. "I am a grown woman who knows my own mind and heart, _brōþor_. I am as much to blame for this as Erchirion-"

"I meant no disrespect to Lisswyn or to your family," Erchirion says, the sound warped by his broken nose, "I am sorry it has come to this, Eothain, but we will not be swayed-"

"We?!" Eothain hisses, lunging towards him and Eomer steps closer, intercepting him at the same time Wilfled does.

"Eothain, _please_ ," Wilfled says, "listen to what they are saying. Do not let your pride-"

"My _pride_?" Eothain bellows, swatting away his wife's hands and turning a ferocious glare on Eomer. "What say you, Eomer King? Do you think it is pride that makes me want to rip this disrespectful bastard's head off? For getting my sister with child without a hint of courtship? I doubt he even intends to provide for her, nor the babe!"

There is a gasp from the assembled crowd. To do such a thing is above dishonor-it is a man's sacred duty to care for any child he begets, no matter the circumstances, and to keep its mother in comfort, even if they cannot be wed. For Erchirion to behave thus...Lisswyn is well within her rights, as the wronged party, to call for a _weorþgeorn hearmplega_.

Eomer turns narrowed eyes on Erchirion. "How do you answer this charge, Prince Erchirion?" He asks, voice shaking with barely contained anger. That any man would treat Lisswyn in such a manner is beyond galling, but that it is Erchirion, Imrahil's son, Lothiriel's brother, a man he has respected and trusted since Morannon-

"That is not my intention," he says, shoulders squared. "I will wed Lisswyn here and now, if that is what you ask of me. I will not deny that I have not behaved as I ought to have, that I have been reckless and disrespectful of your customs, but it was all done in love. I will do whatever is required to prove that I am honest in this. I am not afraid to accept the consequences of my actions."

That is much more in line with what Eomer has come to know of the Prince. Still, to have gotten Lisswyn with child with no courtship gifts exchanged, nor a betrothal announced-it is no small insult. But he is not unwilling to wed her, nor to provide for the child. A fool he has been, but an well-intentioned one, at least.

"What's all this, then?" Eothred says, appearing with Gamling hot on his heels.

Eothain turns to face his uncle, his face still magnificently red. "This Gondorian _cifesboren_ has gotten Lisswyn with child. Without courting gifts, without respect for our traditions-"

"He did not know them," Lisswyn interjects, "and I failed to correct him-I am just as guilty of being irresponsible, Eothain, I wanted Erchirion's love and-"

"I will not hear it!" Eothain cries. "You are too level-headed to behave in such a way, Lisswyn! It-he must have deceived you, somehow-"

Lisswyn's face is nearly as red as her brother's. "You dare-"

"Please, can we not discuss this inside?" Lothiriel says, speaking for the first time since they left the hall. "And in a calmer way-"

"Calm?" Eothain explodes. "You ask me to be calm? Tell me, Lothiriel, would your brother be so calm if it were you and Eomer in this situation?"

Eomer scarcely suppresses a curse as Erchirion lurches forward, stopped only from striking Eothain by Gamling's solid arm around his chest. There is another round of gasps from the crowd, followed swiftly by murmurs.

"Eomer King and _glómmung cwén_?"

"I knew there had to be more to her being here than merely serving as a companion to Lady Eowyn, especially after Yule-"

"Perhaps she is with child as well-"

"Enough!" Eomer barks, too aware of the consequences of Eothain's reckless question. "This matter should never have been handled in public to begin with. Gamling, Ceola, escort Eothain and Erchirion to the council-room. I will join you shortly."

"I am coming, too," Lisswyn declares, meeting Eomer's gaze with a determination that he cannot help but admire. "I will not have the course of my future decided by others, family or not."

Eomer nods his approval-he would not deny her that. The crowd begins to disperse, though the whispers continue. Lothiriel is rooted to the spot, face flushed nearly as red as Eothain's. Wilfled and Eowyn go to her, taking a hand each, clearly offering her comfort, support.

This is most certainly the secret she'd been burdened with-Bema, what had Erchirion and Lisswyn been _thinking_ , putting themselves in this position? Not to mention drawing Lothiriel and, if he's not mistaken, Duilin, into the web of their confidence. And Eothain, with his damned temper, has not only all but declared their impropriety to all of Edoras, but has also thrown his and Lothiriel's courtship into the open. But he cannot think of that, now. Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation must take priority. Imrahil will have to be informed of his son's actions, as well as Aragorn as Erchirion's liege-lord. There is Eothian to placate, not to mention Eothred's thoughts on the matter, and Eomer is certain that the council will have something to say about this scandal as well, if only because it involves a visiting prince and the niece of the Second Marshal.

Gamling and Ceola have successfully herded Eothain and the still-bleeding Erchirion away. Eothred is speaking in a low voice to Lisswyn, whose face crumples only once before she threads her arm through his and allows him to lead her back towards Meduseld.

"I will stay with the children," Wilfled says. "Eowyn, Lothiriel, you may stay-"

"No," Lothiriel answers, voice wobbly. "I have my own place in this, Wilfled. I knew-I saw-"

"We all saw," Wilfled interrupts. "I do not understand how Eothain can profess surprise at this. Lisswyn and Erchirion have had eyes only for each other since the moment they met."

"They are grown people, Lothiriel," Eowyn says soothingly. "This situation is of their own making. Eothain will see reason."

"Or he will be made to see it," Eomer mutters, earning a wry look from Wilfled. "If you are coming, Lothiriel, we should be gone."

All color leaves her face at that, rendering her nearly as pale as she had been at the start of this madness. She drops both other women's hands, twisting her own anxiously as she does so. "I-Eomer, after what Eothain said, what the people must think of me, of us-"

Cursing his friend's loose tongue, he steps closer, crooking a finger under her chin. "I am sorry that it came out this way," he says, unable to keep his thumb from smoothing over her jaw in a gentle motion, "but I can promise that it changes neither my feelings nor my intentions towards you."

"And at the very least," pipes in Eowyn, "when you aren't big with a bastard child at the time of my wedding, even the worst of the gossips would be forced to see what Eothain said was pure nonsense."

Wilfled gives a strangled laugh as Lothiriel's cheeks flush again, but her hand drifts up to fit over his. "I cannot promise not to worry," she says, "but this changes nothing for me, either."

Thank Bema, he thinks, wanting to kiss her so badly he aches with it, but with Wilfled rolling her eyes and Eowyn smirking like a cat that has gotten into the cream behind her, he settles for giving her hand a tight squeeze. "And that is why you're the sensible one, _swete_."

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes him turn, meeting Erkenbrand's long-suffering expression. "The King's justice is required, sire," he says. "And there's a bruised Gondorian prince whose nose needs tending to."

Lothiriel's arm is only trembling a little when she loops it through his, but her face is composed by the time they make their way through the first square.

" _Eall bist fægere_ ," he says in a low tone.

"Let us hope so," she whispers back, a hint of the usual sparkle back in her eyes.

* * *

Eomer excuses Lothiriel to stop by her room to gather her medical supplies for Erchirion's nose.

Her absence gives him the opportunity to press a hand to his temple, willing himself to keep his temper in check. More than anything, he wants to shake both men until sense has rattled back into their brains-what had they been thinking, airing such a private matter to any who had been walking by? But that is far from a kingly way to behave. No, his tactics will have to be much more...subtle.

Still, it's with no small supply of pleasure that he flings the door to the council-room open, causing both Eothain and Erchirion to jump in surprise. Gamling gives him an exasperated look, likely knowing his theatrics for what they are. Lisswyn stands anxiously by the fire, with Eothred flanking her, likely for both protection and comfort.

"Would either of you care to explain," Eomer says, in a tone copied from Theoden from countless lectures over the years, "why a captain of Rohan and a prince of Gondor were brawling in the street like common criminals?"

Erchirion, at least, looks appropriately abashed, but Eothain's face goes impressively red once more."Bema's balls, Eomer!" He cries. "You cannot be reprimanding me for taking him to task, as he damn well deserves!"

"I can and I am," Eomer says. "It is one thing to address a matter like this in your own home, but to air such a thing in public-" He has to stop, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have managed to not only call undue attention to your sister and the child she carries, but assaulted a diplomatic guest who is under my protection by guest right."

Eothain looks ready to work himself into another black temper, but Erchirion cuts across him, saying, "I want no action taken against Eothain for that. I deserved the punch and his censure."

Small mercies, Eomer thinks, giving him a stern look. "Yes, and you have earned mine as well. Green boys with not a penny to their names have done better by women than you have by Lisswyn, are a Prince of Gondor, with much to offer her-why keep it a secret?"

"You know the differences between our courting traditions and your own," Erchirion answers. "I had written to my parents to tell them about Lisswyn and they asked me to wait until they'd met her to give us their blessing to be wed. I did not like it, but their logic was sound. As a prince, much of my personal life remains political. I was going to speak to Eothain and Eothred before I returned to Gondor for Faramir and Eowyn's wedding, to make my intentions clear, but-" He pauses, guilt written in every line of his face. "Then-the child-"

"The child you never would have _dared_ to sire on a Gondorian noblewoman?" asks Eothain. "But yes, prince, tell me more about how you respect Lisswyn, love her, when you have taken liberties with her in a way you would never have dreamed of with a woman of your own country?"

Erchirion's face drains of color. "I-"

"Eothain," Lisswyn says, voice soft but even, "there were no liberties taken that I did not give freely and happily."

Eothain blanches-Eomer cannot blame him. Frankly, he cannot imagine discussing something like this with Eowyn without wanting to do the man responsible bodily harm, either. And he suspects his captain has a point; he doubts Erchirion would have ever thought of behaving thus with any Gondorian lady, widowed or otherwise. He has been reckless, both with Lisswyn and with his position.

"Lisswyn," Eomer says, trying to keep his own tone gentle. Bema, how to say this to her? He has known Lisswyn since they were children, and respects her as much as he does Eowyn. "I ask because I must, as your sovereign: do you call for a _weorþgeorn hearmplega_? If you feel mistreated in any way, it is your right to do so."

"No," she says. "I do not want that. As backwards as this all has been, I do not feel dishonored. I love Erchirion, " at this she offers the prince a watery smile, "and he loves me. That is enough."

"You are too good," Eothain murmurs fiercely, "you have always been too good, too kind-"

Lisswyn's eyes flash dangerously at that, but a soft knock at the door that interrupts her before she can answer. It's pushed open by a grim-faced Erkenbrand, with Lothiriel at his side.

"The princess would like to tend her brother's nose," Erkenbrand says.

Eothain opens his mouth-to say Bema knows what-but Eothred interrupts, mercifully tactful for once. "Aye, lass, we'll not deny you that."

Lothiriel offers him a grateful smile, crossing the room to Erchirion's side. There are muffled grumbles coming from the other side of the door-the councilors, presumably.

"The council would like to speak to you, sire," Erkenbrand says, the exasperation on his face greater than ever.

"You can tell the council to-" Eothain starts, temper clearly boiling over again, but Eomer silences him with a fierce glare.

"I will speak to them when the matter between Erchirion and Lisswyn has been resolved to their satisfaction," he says, "and not before."

Erkenbrand lets out a long-suffering sigh before offering him a crisp nod. The door closes again, muffling the sound of his councilors' outraged squawks.

"What's the verdict, my lady?" Gamling asks.

"Broken, though not too badly," murmurs Lothiriel.

"A pity," hisses Eothain, earning exasperated looks from Gamling and Eothred, and a frown from Lisswyn.

"Enough," his uncle barks, surprising them all-for once, Eothred's face is devoid of its usual humor. "You may have satisfied your anger, Eothain, but breaking the man's nose does nothing for Lisswyn nor the child. They love each other, and if she's agreed to marry him, there's precious little we can do to dissuade her."

Eothain gawks at him. "How can you say that? Uncle, he is scarcely fit to look at Lisswyn, let alone wed her-"

"That isn't how she sees it," Eothred interrupts, "and our opinions of the prince scarcely matter compared to what will make Lisswyn happy." He turns to face his niece, reaching out to take her hands. "You are sure of this, lass? He's still the man you want?"

"I would have no other," she assures him. "Erchirion is a good man, Uncle. I know you and Eothain will come to see what I do in time."

"But what of the matter of Prince Imrahil and the Lady Dejah?" Asks Gamling, sensibly. "Did you not say they only offered their approval on the condition the pair of you waited to be troughed until after they'd met Lisswyn?"

Erchirion's face shifts from pale to flushed so rapidly that Lothiriel gives a cry of alarm, reaching to steady him with a hand at his elbow. "I wrote to them. When we found out about the child. As angry as they will be with me, as disappointed, not even a direct order from my father could sway me from my current course."

Both Lisswyn and Lothiriel turn wide eyes on him, but where Lisswyn's face is hopeful, relieved, Lothiriel's is a study in worry.

"Which is what?" Eothred asks.

Erchirion meets the older man's eyes. "I will wed Lisswyn. If my parents revoke my status as a prince of Dol Amroth, I will write to my uncles in Pelargir and offer myself as a soldier for their border patrols. If they will not accept me, I have contacts in the Gondorian fleet who would hire me. Lisswyn, Darwyn, and our child will not want for anything as long as I draw breath, no matter the cost. Our family holds more value to me than any crown ever could."

It is clear he has thought about this, and clearer still that he is sincere in what he says. Lisswyn has drifted closer, slipping her hand into Erchirion's, but Eomer's gaze is drawn to Lothiriel. Lothiriel, who meets his eyes with an expression that can only be described as stricken. It takes all of his self-control not to go to her, to offer her comfort in any way he can, to repeat his promise that all will be well-

"And we are to have no say in the matter," Eothain says, voice pulling him from his thoughts, "and are supposed to be content with the idea of you moving Lisswyn and Darwyn leagues away from their kin and home?"

"I did not want to presume I would be welcome to remain in Rohan," Erchirion answers. "I know I have not done as I ought to have, and that Eomer is well within his rights to expel me from the country for an extended period, if not permanently."

Erchirion isn't wrong, but Eomer can scarcely imagine doing such a thing. For one, any banishment imposed on the prince would extend to his wife and children as well, and Lisswyn has done nothing to deserve such a punishment. Secondly it is not as if Erchirion has done anything against Lisswyn's will-if he had, Eomer would not lift one finger to prevent Eothain and Eothred tearing him limb from limb-and it is not as if he is not offering to do the right thing, now.

"That is not necessary," Eomer says. He has been disrespectful to their customs, rash with his and Lisswyn's lives, but not malicious or actively harmful. "You have committed no criminal offense, Erchirion."

Eothain opens his mouth to protest, but Lisswyn interrupts with a glare, saying, "I am the only one with the right to accuse him of any wrongdoing, which I will not and certainly never shall."

"In that case, I would like to provide another option," Eomer says, aware of every eye in the room turning in his direction. Eothain's are narrowed, Eothred and Gamling's accompanied by arched eyebrows, Lisswyn and Erchirion's hopeful, and Lothiriel's...Bema, he could not say what emotion shines there but whatever it is makes his chest tighten, the urge to comfort her stronger than ever. "Should your parents displeasure cost you your prince-hood, or your uncles refuse your offer to serve them, there will be a place for you in the eored based out of Aldburg."

Eothain splutters at that. "Eomer, you cannot be serious! You would reward him for spitting in the face of tradition, of our goodwill, by becoming a rider of the Riddermark?"

"He will begin as any new rider would," Eomer says, giving his captain a stony look, "at the bottom. It will be a chance for him to prove himself, both as a warrior and as a man."

Erchirion nods, sharply. "I thank you for your offer, Eomer King." At this, he turns taking both of Lisswyn's hands in his. "But the choice must be yours, _meleth_."

"Mine alone?" She asks, smiling despite the small shake of her head. "Erchirion, we must face this as we have everything else. Together."

"And it's not one that should be made lightly," Eothred adds. "Might I suggest until waiting until after you're wed to choose a nesting spot?"

That draws a startled laugh from Gamling, but Eothain's face is still hostile as he eyes the couple. " _Sweostor_ ," he finally says, "this is what you want? Truly?"

"Yes," Lisswyn says, without hesitation, "and I am sorry that the manner in which it has happened has upset you, Eothain, but I am happy. I finally understand what it is that you and Wilfled share. Is that not reason enough?"

Eothain's shoulders droop. "I would not deny you that. No matter how unworthy I think the man you have given your heart to has proven himself to be."

Erchirion stiffens. "I only ask for the opportunity to show that I can be better than I have been these past months. To Lisswyn, to your family, to Rohan itself, if I must."

"Yes," Eothain agrees, "you must."

"I believe we have a wedding to plan, then," Eothred says, good humor clearly creeping back in, despite everything. "Come now, niece, nephew, _pup_ ," ah, Eomer can hear the slightly menacing tone there as he claps a hand to Erchirion's shoulder hard enough to make him flinch, "we need to share the happy news with Wilfled and the children."

Confident that Eothain is no longer likely to throttle the prince, Eomer gives his marshal a nod of dismissal. The four of the move to the door, flanked by Gamling.

"Should I allow the councilors in, sire?" He asks.

Eomer turns his head to meet Lothiriel's eyes. "Not yet," he says.

"Eomer-" Erchirion starts to say, protest clear in his tone.

"I'll stay with them," Gamling says. "Fret not, prince, for you have bigger concerns than Eomer wooing your sister."

With that, he all but shoos the group from the room, shutting the door quickly behind them before Erkenbrand can so much as blink in surprise. He remains by the door, his weathered face creasing slightly in amusement. "Go on then, _leofbriddas_. Pretend I'm not here."

Lothiriel's arms are around his waist before Eomer can blink, her face pressed tightly against his chest. "I am sorry," she's murmuring, the sound muffled, "I should have told you, I should have done something-"

" _Swete_ ," he says, stroking a hand through her hair. "It is good that you did not. I would have had to intervene regardless, and at least now we can be sure that Eothain will not murder your brother in the street."

"For now, anyways," she concedes, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "Oh, Eomer, what you have done for them-"

"I cannot pretend that I think well of Erchirion at the moment, nor that it will be easy for him should he choose to join the eored," Eomer admits. "Eorlingas are proud, and they will see how he has behaved towards Lisswyn thus far as dishonorable. But I know him to be a good man, this instance aside, and my people are fair. If he proves himself to be a good husband to Lisswyn, no one will speak a word against him."

Lothiriel sniffs. "I hate the situation he has made for himself, and for Lisswyn. But I cannot deny it is a relief knowing it is resolved, at least in part. Though what my parents will say…"

"Your father is a wise man and your mother kind. Angry as they may be at Erchirion for his lack of judgement, I cannot see them banishing him from Dol Amroth, nor forbidding him to wed Lisswyn."

"You are right," she agrees. "I...I am more worried what they will say about you and I, in the wake of all of this."

"Lothiriel," he says, crooking a finger under her chin, "I meant what I said, before. This changes nothing in regards to my intentions or feelings towards you. Whatever challenges the council or your family offers, we will manage them. There is-" His throat feels dry, nervousness clawing at him, but he continues on, "there is no other woman I would want at my side. As my queen, as my wife."

Lothiriel's mouth has fallen open in a round 'o' of surprise. It's endearing, and it would be amusing, were his heart not thundering as loud as a herd of horses in his chest. Bema, has he been too blunt, too honest? Has he spoken too soon-

The sudden press of her hands on either side of his face startles him out of his thoughts, and then she's kissing him, fiercely, stretched up on her toes to reach him. "Eomer," she gasps, breathlessly, "oh, _Eomer_ -"

The sound of Gamling clearing his throat rather pointedly makes them break apart. Lothiriel is flushed and Eomer imagines his face is no less red. "Well, then," the older man says wryly, "I suppose the prince was right to worry. Amusing as this has been, the council still awaits you, sire."

Eomer groans. "I know." He turns to Lothiriel. "They will have questions for both of us. And likely Erchirion, and Eothain."

Lothiriel squares her shoulders. "It is the first of the challenges we must face, I suppose." She smiles, saying, "And I find I am not afraid, if you are with me."

 _Lisswyn has the right of it_ , Eomer thinks as Gamling opens the door, _there's something to be said for together._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This was a doozy of a chapter, both to write and to plot, so I'm a little too worn out to give the long, rambling breakdown I usually do. Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation is out in the open now, and you can bet your bottom dollar the council has thoughts on that, and on Eothain's charming reveal of Eomer and Lothiriel's courtship. We'll be meeting a new character next chapter who has some choice words as well-but that has to wait until next time.

 **Terms:**

 _weorþgeorn hearmplega:_ honor fight, similar to a duel

 _hrot:_ scoundrel

 _cifesboren:_ bastard

 _Eall bist fægere:_ all will be well

 _meleth:_ Sindarian, 'love'


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:** GUYS I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. Y'all were so, so wonderful in your responses to the last chapter-both in terms of the chapter itself and my fretting about a couple of reviews-and I have to thank y'all for that. The muse just fled, unfortunately, until I kicked the plot around with my best friend and realization FINALLY dawned.

Also, I know everyone talks about how the 'you're writing your story for yourself, first and foremost' mindset helps with writing but...it absolutely does. Much as I love (and appreciate!) y'all's feedback, I was getting so wrapped up in whether what I was writing was going to please everyone instead of whether or not it was something **I** wanted to read. Once I got my head in the right space, this chapter flowed!

As it is, I hope you'll enjoy it! I'm sure I'm going to get a couple of looks for the timelining here but oh well. It's what worked in terms of moving the story along, so I hope y'all will suspend a bit of disbelief when it comes to travel. Let's just say they have super fast horses, mmk?

(PS cookies for whoever spots the _Much Ado About Nothing_ quote hidden in this chapter-well, it's not really hidden but STILL)

And now, onward! Here there be realizations, meddling relatives (again), and one big ole' declaration.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

* * *

To say the council had a few choice words about the situation would be an understatement.

In the days following Erchirion and Eothain's public squabble, Eomer has had to sort through no less than 10 petitions-and that's just the written ones. The arguments within the walls of the council room are even more headache-inducing.

"For the fourth time in as many days, Baldred," Erkenbrand says, sounding as exasperated as Eomer feels, "our feelings on the matter amount to a hill of beans compared to Lisswyn's and that of her family's-"

"If Lisswyn wishes to wed a man so lacking in honor, that's her own business," Dernhelm interrupts. "I am more concerned with what kind of precedent is this setting for other Gondorian visitors. 'Here, fine lords, take any of our lasses as you please and in reward we'll give you a place in an eored'."

"Here, here," one of the other men grumbles. "Prince or not, he should be taken out and horse-whipped, not made a rider of the Riddermark. Let these 'fine lords' see what becomes of them when they disrespect our traditions!"

Eomer glares, jaw tight with the effort of not pointing out how much of a political disaster that course of action would be. The room dissolves into murmurs once more-some for, some against, some torn somewhere on the middle-on how to move forward.

Mercifully, Ordlac cuts across the din, saying, "I highly doubt King Elessar would permit his countrymen to swarm the Mark looking for brides. And a more important thing to consider is that any insult given to Prince Erchirion-deserved or not-is an insult to not only his family, but Gondor itself. His actions aside, the betrothal between Lady Eowyn and Lord Faramir is a sound union, both politically and for them personally. To behave so rashly would jeopardize that."

"I will not risk my sister's happiness so that our egos can be soothed," Eomer adds in agreement. "Lisswyn is the only one with the right to call for such an extreme measure and she has already said she will not."

"Besides, it's not as if life in an eored is an easy thing," Tofrith adds, surprising Eomer. "He will start of ranked no higher than a green youth and will be treated as such. That is a humbling thing for any grown man, let alone a prince."

Which had been exactly Eomer's point in offering such a position. He mislikes Erchirion's conduct as much as the rest of them do-he still cannot fully wrap his mind around it, how a man so cautious and careful in all other things could have been this irresponsible-but Bema, what else is he to do? Lisswyn has made it plain that she intends to go wherever her husband-to-be does. If he were to banish Erchirion from the Mark and all of its environs, he would effectively sentence Lisswyn, Darwyn, and their unborn child to the same fate.

"The prince and Lisswyn have not yet made their choice on where they will live," Eothred says. "And likely will not until they've received word from Prince Imrahil or King Elessar. We are arguing over something that may not even come to pass."

The council grumbles once more, but no one dares contradict the Second Marshal.

"There are still other matters that need to be discussed," Dernhelm says.

Something in the other man's tone tells Eomer that he is not referring to crops or rebuilding houses. He can guess where the other man's thoughts are: Eothain's outburst regarding Lothiriel and himself. It makes him wish, very strongly, for both a large mug of ale and Lothiriel herself, if only for a moment of relief. As it is, he's scarcely been able to speak more than two words to her since this whole mess has begun-they've not had any semblance of privacy since Gamling had interrupted their kiss days before.

"Sire," Baldred starts, sounding less than confidant for once, "Eothain Captain's comments regarding you and the princess, as...impertinent as they were, should not make you feel obligated to the lady-"

" _Obligated_?" Eomer growls, unable to stop himself.

Obviously hearing the irritation in Eomer's tone, Ordlac jumps in, saying, "I believe Baldred is trying to say that just because Eothain spoke out of turn does not mean you should feel it is your duty to court her."

Eothred snorts a laugh even as Eomer's knuckles go white on the arms of his chair. _Duty_? It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to lose his temper. As if there is nothing about Lothiriel that is worthy of being courted for her own sake, as if he would even _consider_ trapping them both in a marriage based on rash words instead of happiness and friendship and lo-

"Breathe, lad," Erkenbrand murmurs in a low tone, hand gentle on his shoulder, before turning his gaze on the rest of the council. "Baldred, Ordlac, your fears are unfounded. It would be a mistake to think that Eomer King feels in any way compelled to court Princess Lothiriel."

"An understatement if I've ever heard one," chimes in Eothred. "Because what you meddling windbags have managed to either ignore or deny is that our king has already been courting the princess, long before my charming nephew ran his mouth."

Anger flees in the face of embarrassment as a large portion of the council turns shocked looks on him. Bema, one of these days he really would have to fit Eothred-and likely Eothain too, for good measure-with a muzzle!

"Since when?"

"Hah! Pay up, Elfhelm-"

"Sire, why have you not spoken of it-"

"Can there even be a courtship without Prince Imrahil's approval?"

"Oh, well done, sire, she's a true beauty-"

"Enough!" Gamling finally cries. The room gradually settles, but Dernhelm stands, jaw set mullishly.

"Is there proof of such a thing?" He asks, clearly not to be deterred. "Eomer King, you are an honorable man and I well understand wanting to protect the princess's reputation, in the wake of her brother's indiscrecion and Eothain's words, but that is not reason enough to-to _wed_ her-"

Eomer stands so suddenly that his chair clatters to the floor, startling the entire room into silence. "Honor has _nothing_ to do with this. I am courting Lothiriel because I wish to. Because there is no other woman I would be content to make my Queen. Because I _love_ her."

There's a beat of stunned silence.

"Hah!" Crows Eothred. "And about time you realized it, Eomer King!"

"Oh, this wedding contract is going to be even more difficult than Eowyn's," Torfrith mutters. "I am going to have to an entire roll of vellum made, perhaps two-"

"I _told_ you those dances during Yule were not without meaning," Haleth is saying to an open-mouthed Ordlac, "and you thought he was merely being _polite_ -"

The voices of the council fade away into mere background noise. Eomer presses his hands to the table to keep himself standing. It should not be such a surprise-he's known for months now that this was no passing fancy, no momentary infatuation. But his head swims with the realization regardless.

 _Of course you love her, you fool,_ that little voice whispers, sounding more like Theodred than ever, _did you truly think something this strong comes along every day?_

Erkenbrand's hand on his shoulder draws him out of his thoughts. "Congratulations, lad," the older man murmurs. "I cannot promise it'll be an easy battle, convincing all of these old foxes to accept your choice without an argument, but the love of a good woman is as a powerful motivator as they come."

"I do not-" He starts to say, a sudden wave of panic gripping him. Bema, he's announced to the entire council that he loves her, without having said the same to Lothiriel herself. "I-she may not-"

Erkenbrand's eyebrow arches. "Do you mean to say you've gone and told your council you're in love with the woman without telling her yet?"

Eomer thinks he must manage a choked _yes,_ because then Erkenbrand is chuckling, audible over even the loudest of the council's questions. "I suppose that saying about all men being fools in love is true, then. Even for kings."

* * *

Lothiriel keeps her eyes glued to her needlework, trying to ignore the pointed whispering from across the room.

 _I have done nothing wrong_ , she reminds herself for what feels like the hundredth time since Eothain's outburst. Regardless, the sensation of guilt lingers, hovering uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach.

"Elfswythe, Ceolwen! Enough dawdling. You are not paid to stand around and gossip by the fire," comes Merthwyn's voice, stern and commanding.

The whispers stop and the shuffle of feet reaches Lothiriel's ears as the serving girls hurry away, suitably chastised.

"Pay them no heed," Merthwyn says, laying a gentle hand on Lothiriel's pink cheek. "Their whispers carry no weight."

"But they are not the only ones whispering. About Lisswyn, about Erchirion, about-"

 _Me_ , she thinks, and instantly feels selfish. Oh, but it _does_ bother her, much as she wishes it would not. It is not as if she is not accustomed to whispers-it feels as if that's all she knew in Minas Tirith's courts, both as a child and as a young woman-but to have the sensation of always being watched, talked of, happen here in Edoras is disheartening. It is made doubly worse that some of those eyeing her with wary eyes now are people she has grown to know and like. Who she thought had grown to know and like _her_.

Merthwyn crooks a finger under her chin, forcing Lothiriel to meet her eyes. "Listen to me, _dopænid_. People will always talk about things they do not understand. That's the way of the world. Princess or scullery maid, king or stable boy, we are all only human. It'll fade in time, mark my words."

"Will it?" Lothiriel asks. "My parents have been married for almost forty years and still people talk of my mother secretly being from Harad, or my father having been bewitched-"

"And have they let that ruin their happiness?" The housekeeper interrupts. At the shake of Lothiriel's head, she smiles. "Then I would suggest following your parents' example."

She cannot help but give the older woman a small smile-Merthwyn, at least, does not think differently about her-and nods. "Far be it from me to refuse the advice of the wisest woman in Meduseld."

Merthwyn _tuts_ at her, but the flush in her cheeks tells Lothiriel that she's pleased at the compliment. "Tch. Enough flattery. Show me what it is you've been studying so intently."

Smiling more sincerely, Lothiriel offers up the project she's been working on for the better part of three days. She's not as nimble-fingered as Alycia, but there had been just enough fabric from one of her older dresses to make it. It's lightweight but sturdy, peppered with delicately stitched flowers.

"It is beautiful," Merthwyn murmurs, fingering the lace gently, "but what is it?"

"A veil in the Dol Amrothian style," explains Lothiriel. "It's traditional for the bride to wear her mother's, but as Lisswyn's mother did not have a Gondorian wedding and my own mother is so far away…" She squares her shoulders. "Whatever people may think of my brother, of me, I do not want Lisswyn to ever doubt that I am proud to have her as my sister."

And it is true. She _is_ proud to have Lisswyn as her soon-to-be sister. But no matter how well meant, the gesture feels so very small. But what more can she do? They have not yet had word from Ada and Naneth-nor Aragorn, for that matter-even though the snows have reportedly melted on most of the well-traveled paths. Lisswyn and Erchirion are under enough pressure without her adding her constant presence to the mix. They have been ensconced in Eothred's lodgings with Wilfled and Eothain in a flurry of debating and planning. Lothiriel likely should be there, as Erchirion's only family close enough to be involved, but…

Oh, Valar help her, she is so angry with Eothain that she could _spit_.

Not about his understandable outrage at Erchirion's-and Lisswyn's, because they _are_ adults, and both chose this path-actions, but at the way he'd thrown her and Eomer's courtship out into the open. As if it were some small, unimportant thing. As if it were not worthy of more consideration, of more respect, of the _trust_ they had both put in him to keep it secret-

"-riel?"

Lothiriel blinks, coming out of her daze to find Merthwyn and Eowyn-oh, Elbereth, when had she gotten there?-looking at her.

"I am sorry," she murmurs, tucking the unfinished veil away into her bag, "I was lost in thought."

Eowyn sighs, swinging a leg over the bench and settling in beside her. "A feeling I think we have all become too well acquainted with of late."

Lothiriel squeezes her hand. Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation has set some tongues wagging that surely the White Lady's fine Gondorian lord will want to postpone, if not call off entirely, their betrothal. Which is sheer folly-she is quite certain Faramir would rather cut off his sword arm than do anything other than wed Eowyn, under any circumstances, but she cannot fault her friend for anxiety.

"Here, now," Merthwyn says, "I'll not have the two of you moping while I can do something about it."

"Moping," scoffs Eowyn, even as she leans her head on Lothiriel's shoulder. "We are not _moping,_ Merthwyn."

"Sulking, pouting-call it what you like, Eowyn, the result is the same," retorts the housekeeper. "And I'll not stand for it."

Despite her rounded figure and kind face, Meduseld's _boldweard_ is not to be trifled with when she's set her mind to something, and now is no exception. She corralls them into the kitchens, scattering maids and serving girls as she goes, until it is just the three of them. In the blink of an eye, Lothiriel and Eowyn find themselves both sitting before a bowl of hearty stew with a large mug of mead at its side.

"There is no heartache I know of that a fully belly cannot help," Merthwyn says.

Eowyn rolls her eyes, but Lothiriel knows her well enough to see the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. They dig into the food, slowly at first, and then with growing relish. It _is_ delicious and it is hard to feel glum with a layer of warm food in their stomachs.

Merthwyn gives a satisfied _hmph_ when Lothiriel thanks her. "I have been the housekeeper of Meduseld longer than you two have been alive. I think I know how to cure fretting when I see it."

"And we are all the more lucky for it," agrees Eowyn. "If only the council would try your remedy as well."

"Pff," huffs Merthwyn. "Those old blowhards have to talk themselves in circles before they are weary enough to accept my advice. Give them another day and they'll turn their attention to more pressing matters than meddling in the happiness of young people."

Lothiriel bites her lip, anxiety returning. "Do you truly think so?"

Because it would be easy, so very easy, for the council to set themselves against her. Given Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation, and her knowledge of it-well, she would not blame them for thinking poorly of her, even if Eothain's "remarks" had been overblown at best, and accusatory at their worst. Not to mention her Gondorian heritage-they were stronger allies again now, yes, but she cannot forget beautiful, blonde Dreda, and how much more suited to the role of queen she seems now. Rohirric and with a spotless reputation to boot.

"In the history of the Mark, there has never been a king or queen who has married anyone other than their choice," Merthwyn says.

"My brother is many things, but pliable is not one of them," says Eowyn with a smirk. "There is nothing the council could possibly say to make him change his mind."

Lothiriel ducks her head to hide her smile. She still has so many worries, but the sincerity of Eomer's affection is not one of them.

"I know I should not be so pleased at that prospect," she murmurs, "that I should worry about it causing a rift between him and the council, or worse, him and your people-"

"The council squabble because you are not tied to any of them enough for them to have influence over you. As for the people, Lothiriel, you are still _glommung cwen_ , this mess with Erchirion and Lisswyn aside. And you are only human," interrupts Merthwyn. "I imagine there is not a woman alive who wouldn't be pleased to be loved by as fine a man as Eomer."

Her cheeks flush crimson. "I-we have not said-"

"Oh, Bema," Eowyn groans. "You two are _hopeless_."

"It is not as if there has been much opportunity to speak of such things," Lothiriel defends. "Since Eothain's _outburst_ no one has given us a moment alone. Not even you, Eowyn."

"Which you will thank me for, when your parents ask for proof that nothing _untoward_ has happened," she says. "I think one surprise grandchild is complication enough."

"Eowyn!" Lothiriel splutters. "I-we would _never_ -"

"I know that," she interrupts. "And doubtless your parents will too, but it is best not to give the rumor mill any more to run with."

She deflates. "You are right. It is just...I miss him," Lothiriel says, voice tiny. "And I know that is ridiculous, and so very unfair of me to say to you when you have been separated from Faramir for so long-"

"Lothiriel," Eowyn says, exasperation and fondness at war in her voice, "you do not have to apologize for feeling this way. Emotions are rarely convenient."

Merthwyn snorts. "Would that they were. Then I would never have to encounter one of my maids crying because another one chose to wear a similar frock on the same day."

Eowyn huffs a laugh. "And I would not let wagging tongues make me worry whether or not I will marry the man I love."

"You should not worry at all," Lothiriel says, relieved to be able to voice her opinion on the matter. "Yours and Faramir's marriage has already been approved by both countries' councils and sovereigns. No matter what my parents say about Erchirion and Lisswyn, or what the council decides, that cannot be undone. And besides, I think Faramir would break every diplomatic treaty in existence, if he had to choose between them and you."

"You exaggerate," Eowyn says, but there's no missing her smile, similar to Lothiriel's own from earlier. "As if I would ask him to do such a thing."

"You would have to ask him _not_ to," Lothiriel teases.

Eowyn shakes her head. "Ridiculous man," the love in her voice takes the sting from her words.

"Who could blame him?" Merthwyn asks. "Now, since you two are cured of your gloom, I'll have to ask you to take your improved moods elsewhere. Even I cannot keep everyone from the kitchen forever!"

Eowyn and Lothiriel rise, linking their arms together. Merthwyn tuts at them again when they press kisses of thanks to her cheeks.

Their return to the hall is mostly unremarked on, though Lothiriel feels the distinct prickle at the back of her neck that accompanies being stared at. Eowyn sets her jaw and tucks her arm tighter around hers. "When I was a girl," she says lowly, "I used to wish Theodred would marry, so that I might have a cousin of my own to follow after, the way Eomer did him."

Lothiriel blinks at the abrupt subject change before smiling. "I think you might have ended up with a different sort of cousin than you bargained for, were he permitted to wed his choice."

Eowyn's eyes flick to hers, alight with knowing. "Perhaps. But I was always envious of my friends with sisters, or those whose brothers married women they liked. Having someone like that in my life would have been a welcome relief from all of the sweating, swearing men. It did not help that for so long Eomer was uninterested in anything that was not Guthwine, Firefoot, or his eored. I did not expect to have a sister, either. But I am more than happy to be proven wrong, in that regard."

Lothiriel's cheeks pink again. "Any woman would be lucky to count you as either a sister or a friend, Eowyn."

"True," Eowyn says, unabashedly smug, "but I can think of only one who will do both."

She pushes the door to her rooms open-Lothiriel blinks in surprise, having not been paying attention to where they were walking-and then she stops, stock still.

Because Eomer is standing there, back towards them as he stares into the fire.

"Finally," he grumbles, "I came as soon as I could, like you asked, and have been kept waiting for Bema knows how long-"

"For good reason," interrupts Eowyn. "If you'd care to see why?"

"See-?"

He turns, meeting Eowyn's gaze with an arched eyebrow before he notices Lothiriel. He straightens abruptly, mouth falling open in surprise.

Lothiriel knows she is likely red in the face-yet again-but she cannot help but smile at him. _I love you I love you I love you_ , her heart seems to beat, but she can scarcely open a conversation with that, especially with Eowyn standing beside her, grinning like a loon at both of them.

"Hello," she says instead, and immediately feels like a fool.

"Hello," Eomer replies.

"Oh, for Bema's sake," Eowyn groans. She marches over to the chair under the window, and throws herself into it with a little more force than seems necessary. "I am going to sit here and read. This book is very, very interesting-so interesting that I will likely be unaware of _anything and everything_ going on around me. Should _anything and everything_ need to be discussed in relative privacy."

Eomer grumbles something that sounds distinctively like _meddler_ but he pushes himself away from the fire anyways, drifting closer to where Lothiriel still hovers by the door.

She cannot do anything other than step closer to him and something in her chest, stills, relaxes, when he offers her one of his hands. She reaches for both of them, instead, and threads her fingers through his. His hands are as warm and worn as ever and she loves them. Loves _him_.

 _I do love nothing in the world so well as you_ , she thinks, remembering the line from a book she'd read, long ago now, _is that not strange?_

"How was the council?" Lothiriel asks instead, because she is still learning how to be brave, and telling Eomer she loves him is among the most frightening-however illogical it feels-things she's ever wanted to do.

His cheeks flush, strangely, at that and worry drowns out all other thoughts. Oh, Elbereth, what if they've decided to banish Erchririon? What if they had threatened to withdraw their support of Eomer as king, should he insist on courting her? What if-

"I-they-" Eomer stutters, looking as nervous as she feels. "They have been placated for the time being."

"Oh," she breathes, relieved. "That's-that's good."

They're both silent for a moment. Eomer's hands tighten around hers and she frowns at the dark circles under his eyes, the new lines that seem to have etched themselves, overnight, in his forehead, at the corners of his mouth. "Are _you_ well?" She asks, pulling one hand from his and pressing it against his cheek.

Some of the stiffness eases out of his shoulders. He reaches up as well, covering her hand with his before turning his face to press his mouth against her palm. "Never better," he murmurs and Lothiriel has to suppress a shiver at the sensation of the words against her skin.

"You don't look it," she says and the flushes bright red. Oh, Valar, her stupid tongue-

But Eomer is smiling, looking truly at ease for the first time in a number of days. "Sweet as ever, _byrnihtu cwén_."

"That's not what I-" She starts to say, but then Eomer is bending towards her. The press of his forehead against hers is familiar and exhilarating, all at once, and the words dry up in her throat.

"There is something I need to tell you," he says, voice pitched low.

"Anything," Lothiriel whispers, because she had meant what she said, days ago now-she is not afraid, so long as he is with her. No matter what the council has decided, or will decide, or what her parents will say-

"I love you," Eomer says.

Lothiriel feels as if all of the air has been forced from her lungs. It should not be a great surprise, it should not make her feel as if the world has turned on its axis, but _oh_ , it does.

"I know we must wait for word from your parents, I know that we are not even truly courting by your people's standards, but I cannot-I do not want to deny what I feel for you-"

Oh, Valar, for all of the times for her voice to fail her! Eomer's cheeks are pinked, as he clearly takes her silence for some sort of _rejection_ , the stupid, foolish man-

She kisses him before she can think better of it, hands on either side of his neck, trying to express with actions what she can't quite put into words. Eomer's answering kiss borders on desperation and she clings closer to him, uncaring for anything other than the press of his mouth on hers, the way his hands feel in her hair-

"Ahem," comes a pointed cough and they spring apart.

"Is there not somewhere else you need to be?" Eomer asks, voice rough. "The hall? The stables? A midden, perhaps?"

"No," Eowyn answers succinctly, eyes still on her book, "because then one of you would have to come with me, and I doubt that's truly what you want, brother mine."

Eomer actually _sticks his tongue_ out at her and Lothiriel bursts into laughter, pressing her face into his chest.

"I saw that," Eowyn says.

"Good," Eomer grumbles, stroking a hand through Lothiriel's hair. She tips her head back to meet his eyes. "I...I haven't offended you?" He asks, nervousness out of place on his usually confident, if stoic, face.

"Offended?" She scoffs. "Eomer, why would I be _offended_ when I-"

There is a sudden round of frantic knocking on the door, making them all jump. Eowyn is on her feet almost instantly, shoving them both to one side of the door before pulling it open. It shields them both-well, Eomer has to crouch a little, tall as he is-from view.

"Freca?" Eowyn asks, surprise obvious in her voice. "What is it?"

"Have you seen Eomer King?" The page asks. "There is a large party riding towards Edoras and Erkenbrand has bid me to find him-"

Eomer presses a kiss to Lothiriel's temple before stepping out from behind the door. His page gives a startled squeak and Lothiriel can make out Eowyn's sigh at her brother's dramatics, however unintentional they may be.

"A large party?" He asks. "Of who?"

* * *

There's no mistaking Gondor's banners, held aloft in the late afternoon sunshine, but he does not recognize a single man bearing them.

"Wonderful," snorts Eothain, from somewhere to his left, "more troublesome guests."

Eomer shoots his captain a poisonous look. He still feels no small measure of irritation regarding Eothain's callous reveal of his courtship of Lothiriel, but also knows his long-time friend isn't too pleased with him either, for not permitting him to throttle Erchirion.

"This will prove excellent practice for you," Eomer spits.

"In what?" Eothain asks.

"Holding your tongue," Eomer says. "Since you seem to be unable to do so, of late."

There's a flash of guilt on Eothain's face before it smooths into something more implacable. "As my king commands."

Eomer winces internally-Eothain is one of the few people in his life who has managed to still see him as himself, not just the King of the Mark, since his coronation. He does not want to lose that, but he cannot deny that Eothain is responsible for a large portion of the troubles he will be facing in the coming weeks. Erchirion is responsible for the other portion, but the Gondorian prince is not currently near enough for him to vent his frustration at.

Eowyn steps up beside him, the traditional mead and bread on a tray for their unexpected guests. "I wonder who Aragorn has sent," she murmurs.

"Whoever it is, I hope they are prepared to take on the entirety of the council," Erkenbrand mutters. "A fate I would not wish on my worst enemy."

Eomer stifles a groan, if only just.

The horses and riders have reached the steps of Meduseld. The first man swings himself down from a magnificent black charger. His armor is different from the Gondorian craft Eomer is familiar with, and when he removes his helmet, it is not to reveal a face he recognizes. He looks to be in his forties, with a thick beard and a bald head. He moves with a warrior's grace, mounting the stairs with ease.

For all that he is unknown to Eomer, there is...something about the man that seems familiar. Gondorian are as varied as Eorlingas, in face and sizes, but he cannot shake the feeling that he has seen this man, or one like him, before.

The man bows when he reaches them, first to Eomer and then Eowyn. "Hail Eomer, King of the Mark," he says, his Westron flavored by an accent that also seems vaguely familiar. "I am Andrethon of Pelargir, sent on behalf of Prince Imrahil and King Elessar to aid in the negotiations regarding the situation involving Prince Erchirion and the Lady Lisswyn."

"Drink, and be welcome," Eowyn says, offering him the mead. He sips deeply and then takes the offered bread as well. A handful of serving girls make their way down the steps to offer the same welcome to his men, who all appear to take it gratefully.

"I am pleased to meet you, Andrethon," Eomer says, though he cannot keep his confusion from his voice. Why would Imrahil send an unknown man to deal with such a personal matter? "Please, come-"

"Uncle!" A familiar voice interrupts.

And then Lothiriel has launched herself into the other man's arms. Andrethon catches her with ease, clearly used to such a greeting.

" _Suilad_ , little flower," he says. "I am glad to see at least _you_ have not caused any trouble."

Someone-likely Eothred, damn him-coughs a laugh. Lothiriel's eyes flick to Eomer's before she gives her uncle a winning smile.

"Of course I have not, Uncle," she says. "When do I ever?"

 _Oh, Bema,_ Eomer thinks as the other man's expression morphs into one of suspicion. _We are truly in trouble now._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I won't lie, this chapter was so enjoyable to write (once I got in the mood for it). I hope y'all enjoyed the Big Moment-or should I say half of a Big Moment, since a certain someone didn't get to say it back? (Don't kill me, there's a purpose for that I promise!)

I know a few people took issue with Eomer offering Erchirion a place in a eored, and I tried to address that in this chapter with Torfrith's point of view. Technically, Erchirion hasn't done anything illegal-a dick move? Sure. Illegal? Not hardly-so banishment is a bit out of the question. Plus, Lisswyn doesn't want that, or any other sort of action taken against him, because she loves him. I realize this may not gel for everyone, but hey, it's my story! And this is how it's going to go.

The veil Lothiriel is making for Lisswyn is supposed to be Spanish lace. Obviously, can't call it that, as there is no Spain in Middle Earth, so just imagine it's Dol Amrothian.

And yes. Both Eomer and Lothiriel are Very Put Out with Eothain, for throwing them to the wolves, so to speak. Of course he didn't do it intentionally, and was very justified in his anger regarding the Lisswyn/Erchirion situation, but still. Kinda hung them out to dry. This tension will also be addressed in later chapters.

As promised, we're meeting another member of Lothiriel's family: Uncle Andrethon. He's Dejah's younger half-brother and looks very much like Amaury Nolasco. He's about 45, making him about 10 years older than Elphir, and only twenty-odd years older than Lothiriel, hence why they're fairly close. The reason as to why he, and not anyone else, has been sent to manage the Erchirion/Lisswyn situation will be revealed soon.

 **Vocab:**

 _dopænid_ : duckling

 _boldweard_ : housekeeper


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note:** Ack, guys, I'm so sorry my posting schedule has gotten away from me! This story is my baby and I would NEVER abandon it-it's just taking a little bit more work than anticipated to get a new chapter out to y'all. Sometimes even when the 'will' is there, the words just don't flow!

As always, thank you so much for your continue support-it's been so fun getting to see your reactions to things.

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as previous ones!

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

* * *

Her uncle's face is remarkably still as Erchirion's tale grows to a close.

Lothiriel supposes this is a good thing-Naneth's _older_ brother, Uncle Hannor, would not be sitting so calmly if he were here, and Aunt Maerien would have likely beat Erchirion over the head with her boot-but his silence only serves to make her more nervous. In truth, she is not sure why it was this particular uncle who had been sent to negotiate. Hannor, as Lord of Pelargir, holds more political power, and Ada himself-known to Rohan already-surely would have had more stable ground with the council. So it begs the question: why Andrethon?

"Let me be sure I am understanding this correctly," he finally says, interrupting her thoughts. "You, Prince Erchirion of Dol Amroth, have gotten a woman, the Lady Lisswyn, who is niece to the Second Marshal and sister to the Captain of the King of the Mark's guard, with child. Without being formally betrothed to her, by either Rohan or Gondor's standards. Upon discovering this, Captaina Eothain assaulted you, in public, and announced the lady's pregnancy to a large number of onlookers."

"I-that is one way of putting-" Erchirion starts to say, but is silenced by Andrethon's long-suffering groan.

"Elbereth spare me," he says, "I should have learned long ago that there are no 'small favors' when it comes to the House of Dol Amroth."

"Did...Ada and King Elessar not tell you what they knew of the situation before they sent you?" Lothiriel asks. Surely her father and king would not be so careless!

"Of course they did," Andrethon answers. "But it is so ludicrous that it bears repeating, to make sure I did not dream it all up."

"It is real enough," Erchirion snaps. "And Lisswyn and I would be better served by someone who wishes to _help_ us, not mock us-"

"And Gondor would be better served by a less reckless prince," Andrethon interrupts. "So I suppose we shall both have to be disappointed."

Erchirion's cheeks flame scarlet as he shoots to his feet. "I am not-"

"Erchirion, Uncle, please," Lothiriel says. "This is getting us nowhere."

Andrethon cocks his head to the side, regarding her. "You do not agree with me, little flower?"

Lothiriel chews her lip for a moment. "While I do think it would have been better for Erchirion and Lisswyn to have been more," _responsible_ , she thinks, but says, " _patient_ , I do not think it enough cause to erase all of the times he has served Gondor faithfully and well. Regardless, what has been done cannot be undone. It is pointless and unhelpful to focus on anything other than what we must do going forward."

The anger drains from Erchirion's expression. Andrethon, on the other hand, could not look more surprised than if she had attempted to hit him over the head with the fire poker. Lothiriel flushes, twisting the end of her braid-she has not worn one consistently in _weeks_ , but it felt too strange for her uncle to see her hair in the loose, Rohirric style.

"Is this truly Lothiriel who stands before me?" Andrethon asks. "The same Lothiriel who once challenged my squire to a race, barefoot, through Pelargir's marketplace? Who snuck sand and shells into Marwan's boots when he dared imply that his horse was superior? Who also, if memory serves, dumped a bucket of water-"

"Over Uncle Denethor's messenger for making a rude comment about Alycia," finishes Lothiriel. "Yes, it is still me."

Andrethon's mouth quirks up in a half-smile that she has seen many times on her mother's face. It makes her miss Naneth with a sharp bolt of longing. "You have grown up, Lothiriel."

The pride in his tone makes her blush. "Well," she says, "I could scarcely grow _down_."

Andrethon chuckles, rubbing a hand through his beard. Erchirion drifts over to her, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Do not be so bashful," he says, giving her a squeeze, "you _have_ grown. At least one of us has been a credit to Dol Amroth. Lothiriel has been learning both Rohirric and healing from Edoras' chief healer-

"Erchirion," she murmurs, uncomfortable with his praise and Andrethon's indulgent smile. She had not done _any_ of it in order to be complimented! Though a small, guilty part of her will admit it feels...nice, for her small triumphs to be acknowledged.

"And she has made many friends during our time in Edoras, Uncle," her brother continues, ignoring her feeble protest. "Though I suspect Ada and Naneth will be most excited about who's heart she's managed to capture-"

" _Erchirion_ -" Lothiriel hisses, but it is too late.

Their uncle gives her a sharp look."Erchirion's letter had no mention of a suitor for _you_."

Lothiriel groans, hiding her eyes behind her hands. Erchirion attempts to splutter some sort of excuse, but Andrethon is as wily as Ada, and will not be fooled. She cannot blame him for the slip. Their interest in one another has become somewhat of an open secret, of late, and it would not have been a shock to anyone other than a Gondorian within Edoras's walls.

"Lothiriel," comes her uncle's voice. "Speak quickly. If I am going to have to navigate another diplomatic disaster, I would know it now."

"It is not a disaster," Erchirion defends. "Lothiriel can scarcely do better, politically, than a king."

Lothiriel peeks out from behind her fingers to watch her uncle sink wearily into a nearby chair. "A...king?"

"Eomer," Lothiriel whispers. "I-we-it is not a full courtship, in the Gondorian sense-"

"How could it be, without your parents' permission?" Andrethon mutters drily.

"I can give you my word that they have behaved in a proper manner," adds Erchirion. Andrethon's arched eyebrow indicates _exactly_ what he thinks of Erchirion's word at the moment and her brother frowns. "If that is not enough, Lady Eowyn will confirm it. As can a number of other people of good reputation and standing. They have done nothing that would cause trouble for Lothiriel, or for Ada and Naneth. And besides, do you truly think Ada would have permitted Lothiriel to remain in Rohan for so long, if this were not an outcome he had considered?"

 _That_ nearly knocks Lothiriel for a loop-before Ada had left, she and Eomer had scarcely warmed towards each other at all! But her father has always been a master of strategy, both militarily and personally. He had been the one to send Elphir to Umbar, after all. He may never have met Alycia otherwise, despite the relatively friendly relationship between their cities. With this in mind, it does not seem so far-fetched that the hope of the making a match was a large portion of why he had not objected to Eowyn's request for her to stay.

"Considered, perhaps, but is clearly unaware of how far this situation has developed! Does anyone in Dol Amroth know?"

"Alycia," Lothiriel admits. "She has my letters, if a timeline is required."

Andrethon groans. "Wine. I need wine."

Lothiriel squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet her uncle's gaze without flinching. For Eomer, for what they have built between them, she can be brave, even in the face of his disapproval. "Do you truly think they would take issue, Uncle? He is a good man and a king, of all things. Ada is his friend, Naneth liked him well before I did-"

"Oh?" Her uncle asks. "Was it not love at first sight?"

Erchirion snorts. "Far from it. She called him 'insufferable' for the first month of their acquaintance. And he called her-what was it again, Lothiriel?"

" _Byrnihtu cwén_. Prickly princess," she admits, giving her brother a dark look. "Which is now meant in fondness."

Andrethon gives another impressive groan. "Valar help me. Is there anything _else_ I should know before meeting with the council?"

Erchirion and Lothiriel exchange a look before giving mute shakes of their heads. Andrethon sighs, though something like mirth creeps back into his expression. "And to think, all these years it has been _Amrothos_ who has been thought of as the child most likely to cause trouble."

* * *

Any lingering hope for a mundane, easy morning is dashed upon entering the council room.

The tables have been moved from their standard squared formation to two opposing sides. Andrethon and the other Gondorians sit at one table, his councilors at the other. They're all too absorbed in their own conversations to notice his arrival, and it takes the combination of him clearing his throat several times and Gamling finally crying, "Hail, Eomer King!" to claim their attention.

"Would someone care to explain why my council room has been rearranged into a battle formation?" Eomer asks. Erkenbrand waves him over to a high-backed chair, placed equidistant from both tables. There is a pause while he settles himself.

Dernhelm rises to his feet, looking sheepish. "We wanted to be sure our Gondorian visitors had their own space for the negotiations, sire."

"Which is appreciated, Lord Dernhelm," Andrethon says, though a few of the men at his side look vaguely mutinous, "though I will remind the council that we are all working towards a common goal."

"Which is?" Ordlac asks. "What have King Elessar and Prince Imrahil decreed?"

"King Elessar says he will defer to Prince Imrahil's wishes on the matter," the Pelargirian lord answers. "And to whatever the wishes of the council are. His only stipulation is that whatever solution is agreed upon is satisfactory to all involved and does nothing to jeopardize the friendship between our two countries."

Yes, that does sound very much like Aragorn. Diplomatic to the last, and generous to a fault. There are murmurs of approval from the council. Aragorn, at least, is well-known and well-liked by them. It's unlikely that any of them will take issue with such an offer.

"We thank the High King for being so accommodating," says Erkenbrand. "Though Ordlac's earlier question stands. What has Prince Imrahil said on the matter?"

One of the other Gondorians-Eomer has yet to learn all of their names, though they are, by appearance alone, likely all Pelargirian as well-hands Andrethon a thick letter. From his position, Eomer can just make out the seal of the House of Dol Amroth: an elegant swan in blue wax. He's seen it before, on Imrahil's other letters, and on the delicate silver ring Lothiriel wears on her right hand.

Andrethon clears his throat before saying, " _Greetings to Eomer King and the Honorable Council of the Riddermark. I wish this letter was written under better circumstances, but, in the words of one of your own countrymen: if wishes were horses, then beggars could ride. Let me begin with apologizing for the behavior of my son._ "

There are more favorable murmurs from the council-Imrahil, too, is well-liked, and his straightforward tone is something that any Eorlingas can appreciate.

" _Neither I nor my wife have never known Erchirion to be so rash_ ," Andrethon continues on. " _Betrothals in Gondor, as you likely have come to learn, are not entered into without approval from both families. King Elessar has made me aware that the tradition is quite different in Rohan. Regardless, when he first wrote to us of the Lady Lisswyn, we expressed joy at his having found such an upstanding, kind woman to introduce to us as a potential bride._ "

More murmuring, and Eomer lifts a hand to his mouth to hide a smile when Eothred puffs up with unabashed pride.

" _However, we, much like our son, now find ourselves in a terrible position. Do we eschew our people's traditions entirely and give them our blessing to wed without having met Lady Lisswyn? Or do we add insult to injury to the Mark's own ways, by insisting they remain unwed even with the child to consider?_ "

The room is eerily silent besides the sound of Andrethon's even voice. How the man is remaining so calm is beyond Eomer. The tension in the room is nearly choking!

" _Despite the irregularity surrounding this situation, neither Lady Dejah nor myself can imagine forbidding them to wed. Like any parents, all we have ever wanted is our son's happiness. If he has found it with the Lady Lisswyn, who are we to stop him? But, as I am sure you have all concluded, the situation is not as simple as that. Erchirion has behaved inappropriately, both by our standards and yours. Were he in the position to rule as Lord of Dol Amroth after me, many lords in our own land would likely be calling for his removal from the line of succession._

 _Mercifully, that is not an issue, as he is our second son. Our eldest, Elphir, has been wed for years now, and already has two children himself. But the question remains: what is to be done?_ "

Andrethon pauses, looking up from the letter to meet the eyes of the council members. "There is more, but I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter, my lords."

"Per our own ways, we have no right to stop them from marrying," Ordlac says. "Lisswyn has said, time and time again, that the Prince is the man she wants."

"But he has not behaved honorably!" Baldred adds. "Not towards Lisswyn and certainly not towards the Mark."

Andrethon nods, surprising Eomer. "That we can agree on. However, foolish though my nephew has been, he is no rogue. He seeks to wed the lady, even at the detriment of his own standing in Gondor. And, as you said, his behavior has scarcely won him any friends here. So we will have to come some sort of compromise to reach an agreeable solution. What would the lady's family have of the House of Dol Amroth?"

The council turns their attention to Eothred, who is draped lazily over his chair, as is his wont. Eomer suppresses a groan-would it kill him to sit more formally in the midst of such a serious discussion? "Tradition calls for a bride-price," he drawls. "Even the poorest of farm-boys would give one, if they court with honorable intentions. I'd imagine a prince can, too."

Eomer does not hold back his groan this time. Erkenbrand, and at least three other council members and a handful of the Gondorians, look similarly aghast at the blatant insult offered. Andrethon, on the other hand, looks unruffled.

"Of course. My brother-in-law has included a list of potential options for a bride-price. He was unsure what the standard is in the Riddermark. Gondor's own vary by region. Dol Amroth's traditional gifts often include a boat, but I think that might be rather useless on the Plains."

That draws a smattering of nervous laughter from the room.

The aforementioned lists are passed between the tables. Eothred takes them, pointedly elbowing Dernhelm aside as he does so.

"There is still the matter of where they will live once they're wed," says Erkenbrand.

"Prince Imrahil and Princess Dejah cannot offer them a place in Dol Amroth currently," one of the other Gondorians answers. "Not while their two younger children are still unwed. It would make it too difficult to find acceptable matches for them."

Andrethon's gaze flicks to Eomer. "Well, for Amrothos, perhaps. Apparently my niece has no need of any more suitors."

All of the _eorlingas_ in the room snicker, while the Gondorians look decidedly confused. Eomer can feel the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. "This meeting is to discuss Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation. Not...other matters."

"Of course, Eomer King," Andrethon agrees. "Though I hope, at some point, we might arrange one to discuss _other matters_."

Eomer's palms are sweating. Bema, he has not been this nervous since joining his first _eored_! "Yes," he murmurs, all too aware of the council's attention on them.

"Excellent," the older man says. He turns back to the table. "As for the matter of where they will reside, my older brother-Lord Hannor of Pelargir-is happy to offer Erchirion a position in our patrol. A household would be included in this, of course, though I cannot pretend that it is the safest of occupations. Even with the end of the War, there is still danger of raiders from the South."

"Why does your brother make them welcome when the Prince's own parents cannot?" Ordlac asks.

Andrethon's smile is sharp. "Pelargir is not like the rest of Gondor, my lord. We do not put as much stock in appearances and propriety as the rest of our countrymen. Family is more important than what the society matrons will titter about in Minas Tirith's halls. Imrahil and Dejah would be putting themselves and their other children in difficult situation were they to allow Erchirion to come home, consequence free, no matter how much they would like to do so. Welcoming Erchirion and his lady poses no risk to us."

"Pelargir is also leagues away from the Mark. Even more so than Dol Amroth," Eothred interjects. "Is this the only choice for them?"

"No," Eomer adds before any of the other council members can speak. "My earlier offer stands. The Mark is in desperate need for more riders in our _eoreds_. Should Erchirion and Lisswyn choose to remain here, there is room for him in Aldburg. Though it should be noted he would begin as a _eallgréne astígend_ , and would be treated as such."

The Gondorians frown at the use of Rohirric, but Andrethon says, smoothly, "Erchirion is a masterful horseman. I am sure he would not stay that way for long, though I well understand the intent for him to earn back your countrymen's trust and respect. We thank you for the offer, Eomer King."

"Imrahil has been very generous with the proposed bride-prices," Eothred murmurs. "I suppose he'll be wanting a dowry in return?"

"A dowry?" Splutters Baldred. "The Prince is hardly owed such a thing after behaving in such a manner!"

"Here, here!" Cries another council member.

"Baldred, Elfhelm," Erkenbrand starts to say, "that is not your decision-"

"I would hope," Andrethon interrupts, "that the council would be a little more forgiving on that score. Especially considering that it is in their best interest to keep relations between Dol Amroth and Meduseld warm."

Nervousness twists, abruptly, into panic. Eomer can see how easy it would be for negotiations to go south. To ruin not only Erchirion and Lisswyn's happiness, but also any chance of Imrahil looking favorably on his own courtship of Lothiriel.

"No one here wants to lose the friendship of Dol Amroth," says Torfrith before he can gather his mad-dash thoughts. "A dowry is a traditional request. But _I_ would hope Prince Imrahil is aware of the difference between what such a thing looks like in the Mark and not take it as an insult should it fail to match Gondor's own standards."

"Imrahil hardly expects a shower of jewels or acres of land. He only wants to be sure that this marriage is entered into on equal footing."

"I'd expect no less from Imrahil," Eothred says. "Your brother-in-law is an honorable man and my family is lucky to be connected with his."

Eomer relaxes. Eothred is nothing if not honest, and his endorsement of the eldest Prince of Dol Amroth instantly smooths the Gondorians' ruffled feathers.

"He feels much the same, as does my sister," says Andrethon. "Regardless of the unorthodox way this marriage has come about, that is something you should all know."

"Should we present the options to the happy couple, then?" Erkenbrand asks, clearly also relieved at the turn of events.

"If the council has no objections."

Eomer looks at the council-a few still look disgruntled, but none seem likely to voice it. After a pause, Andrethon stands and offers his hand to Eothred. "To our nieces and nephews, then. May they one day stop giving us grey hair."

Eothred grins. "Yours must be worse than mine. There's not a hair left on your head, grey or otherwise, my friend."

The council slowly trickles out-some stop to talk to their Gondorian counterparts, others wondering about what Merthwyn will serve for the noon-meal today. Eomer stands, stretches, intending to find out about the meal himself, when a hand claps down on his shoulder.

It's Andrethon, who fixes him with a serious expression, though Eomer thinks-thinks, because for all of the similarity of appearance to the Lady Dejah, he doesn't truly know the man-he spots amusement in his eyes.

"One more thing, Eomer King," he says. "Until the meeting takes place to discuss the _other_ matter concerning a member of my family, I'd ask you to refrain from being alone with my niece."

"I-" Eomer starts, but Bema, what is he supposed to say? _Of course_ is untruthful, _mind your own business_ is disrespectful, and _we'll do as we please_ is unthinkable. But so is the idea of not being near Lothiriel-not being able to talk to her, tease her until she blushes, draw out her stories and ideas and everything else he's come to love about her-

"Valar, man, I'm not saying you can't speak to her," Andrethon interrupts, now smiling. Apparently, the panic had been _very_ clear on Eomer's face. "Just do so with a chaperone."

Eomer is fairly certain he's never loathed a word more than _chaperone_.

"Alright," he begrudgingly agrees.

Andrethon's smile widens. "Good. And keep in mind, sire, I know exactly how bad Lothiriel is at lying."

That statement, of all the things he's heard today, is the most nerve-wracking of all.

* * *

Lothiriel has just finished measuring thread for fresh stitches for Duilin when there is an abrupt _knock_ on the door of his shop. It's hardly the first time a patient has turned up out of the blue, but her teacher is already off tending to an injury-one of the stable boys had broken his arm while scaling one of the watchtowers on a dare-and she has never had to face the prospect alone before.

But she has been taught well enough that she knows she need not fret. She pulls the door open, expecting a sick child or an injured craftsman, only to find Eothain anxiously scuffing his foot in the dirt.

"Oh," she says. They have not spoken since he'd punched Erchirion and announced Eomer's courtship of her to the entirety of Edoras. And Valar help her, she is still angry with him.

Though, it is hard to be so right now, when he looks so forlorn in the doorframe.

"The council and your uncle have reached an agreement," he says, as subdued as Lothiriel's ever seen him. "I thought perhaps you'd like to be there when Erchirion and Lisswyn hear it?"

Despite her lingering anger, Lothiriel cannot help but smile, just a little. " _You_ thought or Wilfled did?"

Eothain huffs a laugh. "I will admit that it was her idea. Most of my good ones stem from her."

"I am not surprised," she says. "Give me a minute to leave a note for Duilin and I will come."

He does, hovering anxiously as she writes a quick message and bundles herself into her cloak. A small, mean part of her is tempted to refuse the elbow he offers her, but she thinks of Wilfled, of Eofor and Blodwyn, and slips her arm through his.

The walk is...oh Valar, it is awkward, so incredibly uncomfortable at first, because she cannot ever remember a time when Eothain has been so silent. And she cannot think of a way to start a conversation that does not seem false.

" _Bema áhilpeþ mec_ ," Eothain suddenly groans, startling her. "This shouldn't be so damnably difficult. Lothiriel, I am sorry. Mad as I was-am-at your brother, it was wrong of me to drag you and Eomer into this mess."

 _Yes it was_ , she thinks but can't bring herself to say. Berating him would do little good. It isn't as if he can go back and keep himself from speaking and she cares for Eothain too much to truly hold a grudge against him. "Thank you for apologizing. But it would have come out eventually," Lothiriel murmurs. "I suppose it was a miracle no one had noticed before."

Eothain's face creases into his much more familiar smile. "Oh, _glómmung cwén_ , everyone _noticed_. They just didn't think the two of you had, as well."

Lothiriel gasps, dismayed. "What?"

Eothain chuckles. "You are hardly subtle, Lothiriel! Even if your blushes didn't give you away, that cloak of yours is certainly too fine a gift for anyone other than a suitor to have given you. And Eomer is even worse-do you know I watched him walk into one of Meduseld's beams the other day, because he was too busy staring at you to watch where he was going?"

"He did not," she protests, smiling slightly at the mental image despite herself.

"He did," insists Eothain. "Nearly laughed myself sick, which he did not appreciate. He is as upset with me as you are and that did little to help."

Lothiriel frowns. "Have you apologized to him?"

The captain's face contorts in a truly impressive grimace. "Ah. Not yet. I-I feel I have reason to be displeased with him as well."

She can guess why-Eomer's offer to Erchirion about a position in Aldburg's _eored_. But such a role will keep him, Lisswyn, Darwyn, and the unborn babe somewhat close by. Surely that is to be wished for?

Eothain winces when she says so. "Of course it is. But I cannot help but feel-I know it isn't _logical_ -"

 _Emotions are rarely convenient_ , Eowyn had told her just days before, and Lothiriel can only agree.

"Then you should wait and apologize when you are truly ready," she says. "I think it is probably best to let Eomer's anger simmer anyways."

Eothain snorts. "You really do know him well, Lothiriel."

"I would hope so," she says, "I love him, after all."

She stops stock-still almost as soon as the words have left her mouth. Oh, Valar, she has not even said as much to Eomer _himself_! Eothain's grin is back, wider than ever. "Do you, _glómmung cwén_?"

"Eothain," Lothiriel sighs. "Please-"

"And have you told him? I imagine not-he'd be insufferable if you had. He might even sing and dance his way through the hall-"

Lothiriel claps a hand to Eothian's mouth. "Hush."

He rolls his eyes, but she can feel his smile under her hand. They've reached his and Wilfled's house by now, and he ushers her inside. They're the last to arrive and Wilfled greets her with a kiss to her cheek while she passes a squirming Blodwyn off to her husband.

"Are you friends again?" She asks.

"Yes, yes, you were right, as usual," Eothain grumbles, though there's no missing the affection in his voice.

Lothiriel shakes her head before drifting over to press kisses of her own to both her brother and uncle's cheeks. "Eothain tells me you and the council have reached an agreement?"

"Of a sort," Eothred chimes in. "Much must be decided by Lisswyn and the pup there."

Erchirion's expression sours a little at the unwanted nickname, but he lifts Lisswyn's hand to press a kiss to its back regardless. She smiles at him, her other hand moving softly over the just-now-visible curving of her stomach. "We are ready, Uncle."

"Ah," Eothred says, good-humor bleeding in despite everything, "you'll have to specify which uncle you mean now, Lisswyn. You've got another one to consider now."

They all groan, even Andrethon, though he smiles as he does so. "Your parents have given their approval, Erchirion, and the council has as well."

Both Erchirion and Lisswyn slump in relief, and Darwyn-despite being truly unable to fully grasp the magnitude of that-gives a hoot of happiness.

"But you cannot come back to Dol Amroth," Andrethon continues on. "It is not banishment, nor is it permanent, but they fear….well, they fear that you two being there will make it harder for Amrothos and Lothiriel."

Wilfled frowns. "For Amrothos and Lothiriel? Whatever for?"

"To find spouses," Eothred answers. "Though," at this, he winks in Lothiriel's direction, "I do not think they need worry on at least one account. But apparently those Gondorians can be mighty stuffy about marrying into families that have had anything remotely scandalous happen to them. Especially if it seems if the family is trying to sweep it under the rug."

"But that's ridiculous," Wilfled argues, "Erchirion and Lisswyn's actions have no bearing on either Lothiriel or her other brother-"

"Yes," Lothiriel agrees, "but not everyone in Gondor will see it that way."

Lisswyn loops her arms around Erchirion's waist. "I am so sorry, _mðdleóf_ -"

"Do not apologize," he interrupts gently. "It is not your doing. Much as I love Dol Amroth, I love you and the thought of our life together more."

Eothain rolls his eyes, earning a swat from his wife. "If not Dol Amroth, then where?"

"That is their first choice," Andrethon says. "Hannor has offered you a position in the border patrol, Erchirion. And Eomer King reiterated his previous offer in Alburg's _eored_."

Eothain's jaw clenches, Wilfled looks at the couple with wide, hopeful eyes, and Lothiriel twists the end of her braid, anxious. This is no small decision they will make. Serving in the border patrols or the _eored_ each have their own dangers, their own rewards. Pelargirian society would likely not bat an eye at the strangeness surrounding their wedding, but they would also be leagues away from anyone Lisswyn knows. The concept of a _cumendre_ would be entirely foreign when the babe came. And Erchirion is not a warrior in the same way of her Southern relatives.

On the other hand, it would be no less difficult for Erchirion to remain in Rohan. There are many _eorlingas_ -his own-soon-to-be brother-in-law included-who still mistrust and dislike his behavior, despite Lisswyn's adamant defense of him. And even with the War over, there were still rogue bands of Orcs and goblins that could raid towns at any time.

Both are dangerous lives. Lives he and Lisswyn would likely not have been forced into, should they simply been more careful, less lovestruck-

Oh. Lothiriel supposes she _can_ understand why Eothain is so angry.

Erchirion and Lisswyn's lowly whispered conversation peters out. They turn, hand in hand, to face the rest of the room.

"We will take Eomer's generous offer in Aldburg," Erchirion says. "With all due respect to Uncle Hannor, I do not think I am truly suited to be a member of the border patrol."

Andrethon nods. "So be it. Lord Eothred and I will inform the council. What of the wedding?"

"It should be in Edoras," Lisswyn says, her usually soft voice threaded through with steely resolve. "Unusual as this may be, we are not ashamed. And people should know it."

Andrethon locks eyes with Erchirion. "You realize this will not give your parents, Amrothos, or Elphir time to travel to the wedding?"

"Yes," he says, "but to delay any longer will only look like further insult to those who already see our situation as one."

Lothiriel bites her lip. Naneth was going to be heartbroken-but there is nothing for it. They would have to wed soon, before Lisswyn truly started to show. Dol Amroth was simply too far away.

"There is still the matter of the bride-price and dowry…"

Lothiriel's attention drifts as items and goods are thrown back and forth between her uncle and Eothred. Erchirion and Lisswyn will remain in Rohan. And she is happy for them! Happy that at least some of their uncertainty has been resolved. But...

It will be the first time her brother will not live in the same building as her, let alone the same country. And if- _even_ if everything she hopes for with Eomer comes true, it will still be months, if not _years_ before they themselves can wed. And it will take even longer than that for Erchirion to earn the trust of the _eorlingas_ back, and if Amrothos continues to drag his feet about finding a bride it will make it impossible for them to visit Dol Amroth, which will break Naneth's heart even more, and-

"Lothiriel," Erchirion says, startling her out of her rambling thoughts. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she blurts. "I was-"

"Fretting," her brother finishes for her. "I know that look."

She blushes. Wilfled tucks her arm through hers in a show of support. "Who can blame her? It does not help that it feels as if we have been cooped up in the house for months, with all of this going on."

"You all need not stay for this," Andrethon offers. "We all have good intentions, here, and the most important aspects have already been decided."

"I may take the children to the square to collect Eofor," Wilfled says. "Do you mind, Lisswyn?"

"Not at all-Darwyn could use the exercise," she answers, poking her giggling daughter's cheek.

Lothiriel opens her mouth to offer to accompany them and suddenly finds her arms full of her cloak.

"Here, _glómmung cwén_ ," Eothain says. "I think I know what might help cure your worries."

Puzzled but intrigued, she accepts the cloak without protest. Once Darwyn and Blodwyn are appropriately bundled up, Erchirion, Lisswyn, Andrethon, and Eothred wave them all off.

Wilfled has Blodwyn balanced on her hip and Darwyn's hand firmly in hers by the time they reach the square. She kisses Lothiriel's cheek and then Eothain's, and murmurs, "Behave yourself, please," loud enough that even Lothiriel can hear.

"Where's the fun in that, _swéte_?" Eothain asks.

Wilfled rolls her eyes before continuing deeper into the market. Lothiriel scarcely has time to offer Darwyn a wave goodbye before Eothain is all but dragging her along the well-worn path to Meduseld. Now, she begins to suspect she knows what-or rather, who-Eothain is leading her towards.

"Eothain," she says, "while I appreciate the effort, you should know-"

"That you are not to be alone with Eomer under any circumstances without a chaperone," he finishes, grinning at her surprised expression. "Heard it from your uncle myself. Luckily, I am more than willing to fill the role."

He ignores her admittedly feeble protests, propelling them up the stairs and into the main hall. There are a few people scattered at the tables-Cwenhild and Gamling occupy one, a few councilors at another, and, of course, Eomer at another. The whole hall stops to stare at them-Lothiriel hopes is because of the dramatic way Eothain has chosen to fling the doors open rather than because of the red she knows she's turning.

"Merthwyn!" Eothain cries. "We have a beautiful lady here who is in desperate need of food and a mug of the Mark's finest!"

"And I suppose you'll be wanting something too, eh?" The _boldweard_ asks. She chucks Lothiriel gently under the chin as she passes. "Settle in and I'll have something brought out."

Eomer offers Lothiriel a small smile before turning a much more exasperated expression on Eothain. "Must you make a scene everywhere you go?"

"Why ask questions you already know the answers to?" Eothain says, lowering himself on to the bench across from Eomer, waving Lothiriel around the table to sit beside him.

Lothiriel does, resting a hand on Eomer's shoulder as she swings her leg over the bench. She can feel the tension there and she is tempted, so very tempted, to let her hand linger, to lean over and press her face into the curve between his shoulder and neck and just _breathe_. Just for a moment. But despite the innocent intent, that is certainly something her uncle would deem inappropriate.

Still, that does not stop her from brushing her hand against his under the table. She sighs, relieved, when his fingers lace through hers.

"A long day?" She asks.

Eomer nods. "What of Erchirion and Lisswyn?"

"They chose Aldburg."

"Mm," he hums. "I thought they might." He pauses, looking at her closely. "Does that not please you?"

Cursing her open face, she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand. "I-it does. I know they will be happier here than they would have been in Pelargir. But...I...Erchirion will be so far away," she murmurs, voice tiny. "Is it selfish of me to be sad about that?"

Eomer's fingers tighten around hers. "If it is, then I am guilty of being selfish for the same reason. Happy as I am for Eowyn, the idea of her not being down the hall is discomforting to me."

Relief blooms in her chest, heady and relaxing. "Yes, that is exactly it. Discomforting."

Eomer smiles, crookedly, and her heart squeezes almost painfully with love. She smiles back at him, wishing for all the world that she could lean forward to press her mouth to his, but a not-so-quiet cough from across the table reminds her that they're not alone and certainly not in a private place.

Eomer frowns at his captain, though it's not as a severe expression as she knows it could be. "Is there something you needed, Eothain?"

"No, but _you_ are in need of a chaperone," he chirps, unfazed. "And as I said to Lothiriel, I am more than happy to fill the role. For her sake, at least."

Eomer's frown deepens, but Lothiriel thinks that the fact that Eothain is willing to tease is a sign that his forgiveness is not as far off as he had implied earlier. "Thank you, Eothain," she says.

He winks at her, ignoring Eomer's still pointed-glare. Merthwyn arriving with two full plates of food and a jug of ale distracts him, and Lothiriel takes the opportunity to quickly lift Eomer's hand to her mouth to press a quick kiss to his knuckles.

"What was that for?" He asks.

"Must I have a reason?" She teases, gratified when what is visible of his face behind his beard pinks.

"Of course not-"

"Ah, but I do have one, if you'd like to hear it."

Eomer arches an eyebrow, clearly mystified by her sudden giddiness, but not necessarily displeased. "By all means."

"You told me something the other day," she murmurs, dropping her voice enough that even Eothain, just across the table, would have to strain to hear her, "and I wanted you to know that it is very much reciprocated."

Eomer swallows so heavily she can almost hear it. "I-Lothiriel, speak plainly, do-do you-"

"Love you," she whispers, knowing her face is pink again. For once, she cannot be bothered by it. "Very much."

Eomer is frozen for a moment-not long enough for her to worry, because she remembers doing something similar-before he gives a helpless sort of laugh and reaches up to cup her face in his hands. Lothiriel beams back at him, tears of the happiest pressing at her eyes.

"A- _hem_ ," coughs Eothain.

They both ignore him, though somehow they manage to retain enough sense that to kiss-no matter how happy the reason-in a somewhat crowded hall would certainly bring her uncle's censure down upon their heads.

"Oh, thank Bema," says Eowyn, startling them out of their happy daze. She drops down on Lothiriel's other side, reaching for a bit of bread from her plate. "I thought that would take _much_ longer."

"Eowyn," Eomer grumbles, reluctantly dropping his hands to a more appropriate place. Or, at least a more discreet one, as his finds Lothiriel's under the table once more. Lothiriel is too happy to truly be bothered, even when Eowyn smirks. She leans her head against Eomer's shoulder, just for a moment, and smiles at the sensation of his thumb running back and forth along her index finger.

Which is, of course, the moment Andrethon and Eothred make their own appearance in the hall. Eothred looks incredibly amused, but Andrethon's expression is one of exasperation.

"I see that that meeting is going to need to be sooner rather than later," he says.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So I'm sure a few people are wondering "Why is their a bride-price and a dowry? Aren't they the same thing?" They are not!

To quote an excellent article on the difference: "The bride price is what it sounds like—a specific price (property, money, etc.) paid by the bridegroom (or his family) to the bride's parents. Depending on the society and the period, this could be either a set price for all brides (virgins having a higher price) or a negotiated price based on the perceived worth of the girl (beautiful or especially industrious women being more highly valued)." Now, in a modern context, this can easily be perceived as sexist-as if the groom is "purchasing" the bride. But a large majority of historians that I found have interpreted it in a much more palatable way-the bride-price is a way for a suitor to prove that he can provide and care for his future wife. In modern terms, it would be the equivalent of a family asking that a man have a stable job and income before marrying into their family.

The dowry, on the other hand, is money and goods that a bride brings to her husband as part of the marriage. It's supposed to aid in the building of their new, shared household AND-in the sad cases where a husband were to die very soon into a new marriage-serve as an almost "inheritance" to the newly widowed woman.

I chose to include both in Too Wise, because it just seemed fitting given the natures of both Gondor and Rohan's societies. If I have been misinformed in some way regarding bride-prices and dowries, feel free to shoot me a message or leave a comment!

On a more story related note: So Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation has been (mostly) resolved, though it certainly won't be all smooth sailing from here on out. Eothain and Eomer have yet to mend their friendship entirely-though it will happen, don't worry-and poor Andrethon has a LOT more on his plate than Imrahil and Aragorn knew of. (He'll handle it in the way he deems fit, which will be...interesting, for all involved.)

And yes, our favorite idiots in love remain idiots in love. And while I can promise a happy ending-I'm not a monster, I didn't write 150K words for that NOT to happen-I can also promise there's a few more twists and turns before this story reaches its conclusion. Which should be, by the way, sooner rather than later. I'm reluctant to put a chapter limit on myself, because that's a surefire way for me to add 1000 more words, but. Soon(ish).

(Also shameless plug: there's going to be a MUCH shorter sequel/epilogue to Too Wise as well, so keep an eye out for that!)

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, friends! See y'all next time-which should be soon(ish)!

 **Vocab:**  
 _eallgréne astígend_ : green rider, youth, lowly ranked  
 _Bema áhilpeþ mec_ : Bema help me  
 _mðdleóf_ : my love, beloved


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note:** I'm back! I have no real excuse for why this took so long to write, other than the fact that inspiration COMPLETELY deserted me, and that the holiday season is a very busy time both professionally and personally for me. Thank you for your patience!

Without further ado, the newest update! It's a little shorter than my average-I had intended in having the wedding in this chapter too, but when I hit 11 pages in the GDoc and hadn't written it, I realized I'd be cramming it in and not giving it the full description it deserves if I did so. So that'll be the next update.

In which wedding planning hits full swing, Andrethon and Eomer have a chat, and Lothiriel learns more about the Mark's wedding tattoos.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

* * *

 _February 12th, T.A. 3020, Edoras, Rohan_

 _Dear Ada and Naneth,_

 _I know you will receive Uncle Andrethon's letter as well as the formal agreement regarding Lisswyn and Erchirion's marriage along with this one, but it felt strange not to write you both myself. Uncle and the council have come to an agreeable solution for all involved, thank the Valar. Which is a relief, for I can tell you with confidence that they truly are a good match, in so many ways. Erchirion is happier than I have ever seen._

 _I hope this is something of a comfort to you. I know you must be more upset than your letter to the council let on, Ada. And Elbereth knows they could have gone about it in a more responsible way. But I cannot begrudge them-either of them-their happiness. I hope you will not either._

 _And dear Naneth, I will be sure to write again after the wedding, for I know you will want me to be as detailed as possible. How I wish you could both be here! And Elphir and Alycia and the children-even Amrothos, though I can only imagine the teasing he is going to heap upon Erchirion for being anything other than his "usual boringly responsible self". But I will do my best to give you an account of everything, from their clothes all the way down to the last petal showered on their heads in celebration._

 _I must hurry, for even now Uncle's poor messenger is giving me a pleading look, eager to be on the roads whilst the sun is still shining. I love you both and will see you soon, for Uncle Andrethon has told me that I am to return with him once Erchirion and Lisswyn are settled. I must admit, it will be strange to leave Rohan. For all of its differences to Dol Amroth, I have come to love it, love its people, love-_

Lothiriel pauses, chewing on her lip. She can feel the eyes of her uncle's messenger boring into her-she has kept him waiting ten minutes already, though his horse is saddled and he is otherwise well ready to depart.

Should she finish the sentence with the truth? That she loves not only Rohan, but the man who rules it? Uncle has already told her he would not be saying such a thing in his own letter-" _I am not a man who makes a habit of sharing delicate information via letters, little flower, especially when it is not something that pertains to my own heart,_ "-and unless Alycia has become loose-lipped in the time she's been away, it's very unlikely they would have heard of her and Eomer's not-quite-courtship.

But her parents have already received more than their fair share of shocking news via letters this year. It feels...wrong, to not tell them, but more wrong still to add to their worries by declaring such a thing when she is not present to explain the whole tale.

 _...love the lessons I have learned here. I must thank you again for allowing me to stay, Ada. It has been some of the best days of my life-even with Erchirion's "stunning impression of an utter buffoon", as Uncle puts it._

 _All my love,_

 _Lothiriel_

The messenger-Nodron, she thinks-plucks the letter from her fingers the instant she's sealed it. Lothiriel frowns at his rudeness, but is prevented from scolding him by the sudden appearance of a frazzled-looking Wilfled at her shoulder.

"Good, you're finished," she says, tucking her arm through Lothiriel's and all but dragging her towards Eowyn's rooms. "We need you."

"Wilfled, what-"

Wilfled pushes the doors open, revealing a flurry of activity. Dresses in an array of fabric, cut, and color are strewn across Eowyn's bed. Lisswyn, her face flushed bright pink, is surrounded by three of her friends and Mistress Theodburga, who are turning her to-and-fro in a gown that is a truly startling shade of purple. Eowyn is scowling at them, with a perplexed-looking Darwyn on her hip.

"What is happening here?" Lothiriel asks. Though she'd asked it in a low tone, the room abruptly goes silent, every eye turning to meet her gaze.

"Oh, thank Bema," groans Eowyn. "Perhaps these ninnies will hear sense from _you_ , Lothiriel, if not from me."

Mistress Theodburga frowns. "You cannot fault us for fretting, Eowyn. Even _I_ do not know what a proper Gondorian wedding dress is supposed to look like."

 _Ah,_ Lothiriel thinks. Yes, this she can handle.

She drifts closer to the flustered group, reaching out to clasp one of Lisswyn's hands in her own. "Are you well?" She asks, because her soon-to-be sister looks more than a little overwhelmed.

"I do not like the color," she admits, in small voice, "but Ceolwen insists it is the color of royalty-"

"Well it is!" One of the women, blonde and thin as a reed, with a slightly pinched voice to match. "And that is what you are to be once you wed your prince, Lisswyn, so you might as well get used to it!"

Lisswyn's face shifts from red to white rapidly and Lothiriel shoots Ceolwen a dark look. Surely she knows of Lisswyn's shyness? Mentioning her forthcoming change in status is hardly a calming thought in an already stressful situation.

"The titles of Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth are not the same as those given to our High King and Queen. Especially for you and Erchirion, considering that Elphir will eventually take over as the ruling Prince," she soothes, rubbing Lisswyn's ice cold fingers reassuringly. "Think of them more as...highly ranking nobles. Like those on Eomer King's council."

Lisswyn relaxes, minutely, but the three women exchange looks that Lothiriel is sure she does not like.

"Eomer King, is it?" Another woman, a vaguely familiar ditch-water blonde-freckled and mischievous-looking-murmurs. "I am surprised you are still so formal about him, my lady!"

"Yes," Rosefled, so recently arrived from Aldburg, chimes in, though her expression is earnest in place of teasing. "We thought-well, we had heard-"

"Never mind what you heard," Eowyn snaps. "You three are here to help Lisswyn, not pester Lothiriel about some rumor."

Lothiriel offers her friend a grateful smile for her intervention. Though, they are not the first to have asked her about Eomer. And anyone close enough to Lisswyn to help her with her wedding clothes are likely cut from a good cloth. She is certain they are simply curious, as anyone would be.

"Ugh, you are no fun, Eowyn!" Says the freckled woman. "But fine. We are here to help and help we shall. Especially with aid from the princess."

Lothiriel smiles before turning her attention to the dresses spread across the bed. In truth, none of them match the traditions of Gondor, though the rich greens and reds and golds would all look lovely against Lisswyn's fair coloring. But Dol Amrothian brides tend to wear the colors of the sea-soft greens, bold blues, and even gentle greys, in order to call down the blessings of Ulmo.

Lisswyn's friends blink in surprise when she says as much, but Mistress Theodburga moves, shifting the pile aside to reveal a beautiful soft grey gown. It nearly sparkles when she lifts it to the light. All present sigh appropriately.

"I think this suits you much more than the purple," Lothiriel says. "And will go wonderfully with the veil."

"The veil?"

"Oh! I thought I had showed you!"

She pulls the item in question forth, laying the lace veil in Lisswyn's outstretched hands. She is not as fine at lacework as Alycia, but she is satisfied with what she has been able to cobble together. It is edged with flowers per Dol Amrothian tradition, but with Eowyn's help she'd been able to find a Rohirric sun to pattern after, which will sit like a crown atop Lisswyn's head. Both flowers and sun call for blessings of happiness and fidelity, from Vana and Bema alike. It is a blend of traditions, as the rest of the wedding will be. As the rest of Erchirion and Lisswyn's marriage will be.

Lisswyn has tears in her eyes as the other women coo over the veil. "Lothiriel, this is lovely."

"And the flowers match the ones that will be in your wedding mark!" Cries Rosefled. "Oh, Lothiriel, how did you know?"

"Erchirion showed me the designs you'd agreed on," she admits. "I hope that's alright."

"More than alright," Lisswyn assures her. "Will you all help me put them both on?"

Her friends set to work, keeping up a stream of cheerful chatter as they do so. The back of Lothiriel's neck prickles as she turns to meet Mistress Theodburga's sharp gaze.

"So you do approve of this, then," the seamstress says. "Else I doubt you would have spent so much time on the veil."

Lothiriel frowns. Mistress Theodburga has always been polite, if professional, towards her before now. But there is a stiffness in the way she's regarding her at the moment. A wariness. A mistrust.

"I do wish they had gone about it in a better way," she murmurs, low enough not to be heard over the cheerful chattering of the other women. "But they are happy, Mistress Theodburga. That is enough for me."

Valar, but she is sick of having to say that! That she must lead with the qualifier that this marriage is untraditional, _rushed_ , and it being so must limit her happiness for them in some way. As if their happiness is so small a thing, after so much death and loss.

The seamstress, though, softens a little. "That will be enough for most people. Once they have seen it with their own eyes."

Lothiriel bites her lip, ire lessening. She knows-how could she not?-that it is not just Eothain that disapproves of Erchirion's conduct. Mistress Theodburga's words confirm that, and also bring another worry to the light: that people think she disapproves, in any way, of Lisswyn. The long-ingrained urge to fret, to turn this over in her mind until she's a ball of confusion and doubt, is there, bubbling just under the surface.

But no. She has moved passed that now, the fear and the worry about other people's judgement.

 _If you are to be a Queen,_ a voice that sounds like Duilin whispers, _best start acting like it_.

"I am glad of it," she says, glad her voice is even and controlled. "As I know Lisswyn will be glad of your help in altering this gown, especially on such short notice."

Tension abated, they turn their attention back to the much more pleasant matter at hand. Eowyn drifts closer, pressing Lothiriel's elbow in a silent show of concern, but she waves it off with a small smile.

 _It will be well_ , she thinks.

* * *

The cool, crisp quiet of Morwen Queen's gardens is a much needed respite from the bustle going on within Meduseld. It was not the first time the hall had been used for a wedding-and it certainly won't be the last-but the underlying scandal surrounding this _particular_ wedding has garnered the attention of everyone in Edoras. His headache, begun in the council meeting, has only steadily worsened at the continued chatter coming from what seems like every room in the keep.

Eomer takes a deep breath. Bema, he will be glad when it is all over. When Erchirion and Lisswyn are good and truly settled in Aldburg, when the councilors unable to mutter about any lingering doubts, when Eothain will stop giving him dark looks when he thinks he cannot see them.

 _And what about what else this wedding will bring?_

Ah, yes. _That_. The Gondorians have made plans to escort Erchirion and Lisswyn to their new home as soon after the wedding as possible before continuing back to Dol Amroth. And Lothiriel will be going with them. He knows very well why. For all the trust Imrahil has in him, in _her_ , there is simply no way she can remain in Edoras without a chaperone. And Eowyn will not suffice, not when there is the potential of a betrothal and Bema knows what else, thanks to Eothain's big mouth, all around them.

A breeze pulls at his cloak and he tugs it back in place, taking a moment to finger the intricate embroidery. Protection and warmth, from his _þyrnihtu cwen,_ to keep with him even when she is gone. Logically, he knows it will only be a short separation. Eowyn has already asked Lothiriel to serve as one of her witnesses at her wedding to Faramir in May. Imrahil and Lady Dejah would never force her to deny his sister that, even if they should take issue with his suit. And why should they? He is a king, lord of a fell people, and Imrahil's friend. Most of all, he has Lothiriel's love-

 _Eomer, son of Eomund. A lesser son of greater sires_ , a voice whispers, sounding horribly like Wormtongue, _rough and course and hot-tempered. Who are you, to think to lay claim to a daughter of the blood of Numenor?_

The sound of someone clearing their throat jerks him from his reverie. Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he turns to see who has interrupted his solitude.

It is not who he expects.

Lord Andrethon, wrapped in what must be a borrowed bundle of furs, is eyeing his own cloak with an expression Eomer can only describe as amused.

"That is a very fine cloak, Eomer King," he says.

 _Bema spare me from the platitudes of Gondorian courtiers_ , Eomer thinks. He had thought Lothiriel's Pelargirian family to be different than the lords of Minas Tirith. More straightforward, like his own people.

"Very fine indeed," the other man continues on, "though I will say, I have always been incredibly biased when it comes to Lothiriel's needlework."

Eomer cannot help the surprised snort he gives and is relieved to see Lord Andrethon grin as well.

"Is it so obvious?"

"Well, it's certainly not in the Rohirric style. And Dol Amrothian patterns are known throughout Gondor for their intricacy. That and my niece tends to leave her mark on anything she's ever made."

He nods in the direction of Eomer's shoulder. No, not his shoulder, but the border of the cloak on his left side. There, amongst the squared, solid pattern that indicates protection, is a tiny flower, stitched so delicately he had failed to notice before now.

"Lothiriel is an expert needlewoman and a very poor liar," Andrethon says. "So she must truly care for you as much as it seems."

Eomer is grateful that the cold that has already likely put some color into his cheeks. It won't do to have Lothiriel's family-especially her clearly beloved uncle-think he is some wet-behind the ears _boy_ , smitten beyond reason. Though, given the way Andrethon is eyeing him, with a sharp, shrewd glint in his eye not unlike Imrahil's, Eomer supposes there is no point in trying to hide it. He _is_ smitten beyond reason, after all.

"And I for her," he admits. "I know it would not follow Gondorian tradition, but I would marry her tomorrow, if she would have me."

Andrethon snorts. "I do not think it's a question of _if_ , Eomer King. But let us leave the dubiously respectable weddings to my nephew and the Lady Lisswyn. I do not think my sister would forgive me were I to permit _two_ of her children to marry without her being there."

There is a slight tightness to his expression as he says it and Eomer finds himself reaching over to clasp his shoulder. "I am sorry that it is so. It is no secret that their family is a close one. I know that missing such an event will bring both her and Imrahil pain. If there was another way that would allow for them to be here, I would have asked for it."

The older man blinks. "Even without knowing if Imrahil and Dejah will approve your suit?"

"Even then," Eomer says.

Andrethon eyes him-again, Eomer has the sensation of being...not judged, necessarily, but weighed. Evaluated. When his mouth turns up in a smile not unlike those he remembers from Lady Dejah at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding feast, he supposes he has not been found wanting.

"Yes, I can see why she likes you," he declares at last. "Though how you managed to woo her after calling her a 'prickly princess' for weeks still eludes me."

Snorting and wondering who'd shared _that_ particular detail with him, Eomer gives a helpless shrug. "It baffles me as well. Though I have learned, of late, it is best not to question one's good fortune. Especially when it comes to a woman's judgement."

"A wise man in many respects, then," says Andrethon. "Come now, Eomer King, lest your advisors think I have come to broker your marriage amongst the snow and frozen flowers."

* * *

Despite all of the tension and gossip surrounding the wedding, the day begins on a positive note. The sunrise is a beautiful thing, bathing all of Edoras in soft, golden light. Lothiriel is awake to see it herself, ensconced in Wilfled and Eothain's house to help Lisswyn prepare. All menfolk-even including a yawning Eofor-have been long since banished. She'd been unsurprised that they'd dragged poor Erchirion off to one of the alehouses the night before to mark his last night as a single man. And likely interrogated him, one last time, for good measure. It's an age-old tradition, one that is the same in Rohan and Gondor and many other places in Middle Earth.

Lisswyn, though, seems very unsettled by the idea. "Eothain still does not like him," she says, fretting even as she cards her fingers through Darwyn's soft hair. "What if he had him drink too much ale?"

"A thick head would not be enough to prevent Erchirion from marrying you," Lothiriel promises. "And I doubt Eothred would permit such a thing, anyways."

"He nor Eothain would pull such a stunt," adds Wilfled. "For they both know they would face my wrath if they had."

"A truly terrifying prospect," Eowyn says drolly, earning a grin from Wilfled.

Fears at least somewhat lessened, it doesn't take much for them and the other women present-Rosefled, Ceolwen, and freckly Trewred-to distract her. It is a happy day, in spite of it all, and none of them will let her begin her married life in any other state than content.

Lisswyn, as the bride, is the only one yet to be fitted in her wedding finery. The other ladies-Lothiriel included-are all in their finest gowns. Most have flower crowns in their hair, again calling the blessings of Vana. But Eowyn had insisted on something different for Lothiriel. She touches her braid carefully, cautious not to dislodge any of the flowers woven through it. It had caused a titter she didn't understand, when Eowyn had placed them there, but thus far, no one was being very forthcoming as to _why_.

She jumps at the sudden swat of Eowyn's fingers against hers. "Stop fiddling! You have more important tasks at hand."

Lothiriel and Wilfled, as her already sister-in-law and soon-to-be one, are responsible for lacing Lisswyn into her gown. It stretches a bit taut over the swell of her stomach, but that's to be expected. Lothiriel cannot help but blink in surprise to see that Lisswyn's right arm-while marked with her wedding mark from her marriage to Widfara-does not bear the new wedding mark as well. The entire room laughs when she comments on it, making her cheeks pink in embarrassment.

"No one wants to have a sore arm on their wedding night, Lothiriel," Wilfled explains with a grin.

"Why would-" She snaps her mouth shut before she can make herself sound anything _more_ like a silly little goose. Of _course_ no one would want to be freshly tattooed the night of their wedding-it would make even the most gentle of bedding very uncomfortable. Though, wasn't it already supposed to be uncomfortable, for women? That's what the ladies of Minas Tirith had always implied from behind their fans. _A wife's unfortunate duty_ , they had sighed. But having born witness to Naneth and Ada's happy marriage her whole life, and then later Elphir and Alycia's own loving union, that had never seemed _right_. And thinking of the now-visible swell of Lisswyn's stomach, the obvious affection-and lust, it must be said-between Eothain and Wilfled, and the way Eomer had made her feel that day in this very room-

"Don't be so embarrassed, my lady!" Trewred laughs, mercifully misreading Lothiriel's still red face. "It's an easy enough reason to overlook for a maiden."

"Wedding marks are done the day after the wedding," Eowyn explains. "Well, or the day after that. It depends on when the newly-wedded couple decides to finally reemerge from their rooms."

"I think Wilfled and Eothain hold the record for the longest time between their actual wedding and getting their marks," Ceolwen says, smirking. "How long was it, Wilfled?"

"Five days," she answers, smiling dreamily. "All wonderfully spent."

"It was _mortifying_ ," Lisswyn says to Lothiriel in a loud tone. "Every man in Aldburg whistled at Eothain every time he went anywhere for _weeks_."

Lothiriel cannot help but laugh; the image of Eothain strutting around Aldburg like a particularly large and proud rooster is all too easy to picture.

"Perhaps you and your prince should outdo us," Wilfled says, voice sly. "Give Eothain a reason to cringe, for once."

It is Lisswyn's turn to blush as the rest of the room dissolves into laughter. They manage to compose themselves long enough to help Lothiriel pin the veil to Lisswyn's hair. She truly is a beautiful bride, the shine of her copper hair standing out against the soft silver of her gown and the bright white of the veil. Darwyn declares she looks like moonlight and receives a kiss for her compliment.

The sudden knock on the door makes them all jump.

"I hope it is merely dressing that is taking so long," comes Eothain''s voice, "and not cold feet!"

Wilfled rolls her eyes at her husband's antics. "As if you have ever been on time for anything in your life," she says, crossing the room to open the door. "And this is no time for teasing! Be a good brother and tell your sister how lovely she looks."

A remarkably well-groomed Eothain grumbles as he enters. It's clear someone-Lothiriel suspects Merthwyn-has managed to get him to comb his hair and trim his beard. His clothes are likely the finest he owns and any trace of dirt has been very thoroughly removed from him. But that is not the most striking thing about him, now. No, it is the look on his face when he catches sight of Lisswyn.

"Lissy," he murmurs, something soft and achingly sweet in his voice that makes Lothiriel miss Elphir and Amrothos with a sudden pang, "you look-you are-Bema, you _are_ happy, aren't you?"

Lisswyn gives a happy-if slightly watery-laugh. "Yes. Very much so, _dysig brōþor_."

Lothiriel busies herself with helping arrange the tiny flower crown on Darwyn's head. It feels as if they are intruding on a very private moment between brother and sister; she knows if it were her and one of _her_ brothers, she would not want an audience for such a thing. The other women seem to pick up on it as well, flitting around the room as Eothain steps closer to Lisswyn to take her hands in his. Their voices grow quiet enough that anyone else would have to strain to hear them.

Lothiriel looks up to see Eowyn watching the pair of them with a bittersweet expression on her face. It isn't hard to guess what she's thinking of: the similar conversation she and Eomer will likely have on her own wedding day. But Aldburg is less than a day's ride from Edoras-Lisswyn and Eothain will be able to see each other as often as they'd like.

It is not such an easy journey between Edoras and Ithilien. Eowyn will be preoccupied in her new role of wife and Princess of Gondor and Eomer will be equally consumed by his role as king. It is likely that they will not see each other again for months, if not _years_. No doubt the war kept them separate for months at a time, but it will not be the same. Home will cease to be the same place for them.

So she drifts closer and tucks her arm around Eowyn's, causing her to blink out of her reverie. "Lothiriel?"

"Elphir told me in his last letter that there is a combined team of Gondorians and _eorlingas_ working to unblock the Dimholt pass," she says. "That will make the passage of mail between our countries a much swifter thing."

Eowyn gives a small chuckle. "You must be rubbing off on me, if my face has become so readable."

"Perhaps," Lothiriel concedes. "Or perhaps I simply know you very well."

 _And understand better than most what it is you feel_ , she thinks. For the distance between Aldburg and Dol Amroth was no small thing either. And given her pregnancy, it would be unlikely that Lisswyn would be able to make the journey to Minas Tirith for Eowyn's wedding in the spring, and even less likely that Erchirion would come without her. It would be months or years before they are all reunited, too.

But this is not the time for such somber thoughts. It is her brother's wedding day, after all. As it is, neither she nor Eowyn have much time to linger in their melancholy, for Eofor is abruptly bursting through the door, looking _considerably_ less tidy than his father.

"Eofor!' Groans Wilfled. "You're a mess!"

"But Modor, I had to hurry! Master Duilin said it is an ill omen for a bride to be late!" He explains, wincing as Wilfled wipes at his sweaty face brusquely.

"That old meddler knows full well we are not running late," Eothain chuckles. "He is likely waiting for me to cause a scene."

"Will you?" Rosefled asks, eyeing her cousin with hands on her hips. She has made it clear since her hurried arrival in Edoras not a week before which of her cousins' side she stands on.

Eothain looks to Lisswyn again, bumping his shoulder with hers. "I will not."

"Thank Bema for that-"

"Besides," he says, face shifting to fit its familiar mischievous lines, "that shiner I gave him last night will cause enough of a scene-"

" _Eothain!_ " The whole house cries in unison, aghast. Oh, Valar, there is not _nearly_ enough time for her to make a poultice to lessen the swelling-

Eothain gives an _oof_ of surprise as Lisswyn elbows him neatly in the stomach. "You are not nearly as funny as you think you are," she informs him.

"It was worth it," he gasps, grinning even as he rubs what will soon be a bruise, "just for the look on Lothiriel's face!"

They all groan, Wilfled loudest of all. "I must have been hit on the head very hard the day I agreed to marry you."

Eothain's grin morphs into a smirk. He lopes towards his wife, pulling her into his arms with an ease born of both practice and intimacy. "Yes, with a very, very heavy dose of desire-"

"And that's enough of that," Eowyn interrupts. "We _will_ be late if you two get started."

"Get started with what?" asks Eofor.

Avoiding answering Eofor's innocent question is what finally spurs everyone into action. Last checks of flowers and dresses are quickly done. Wilfled, sighing, having shoo'd her husband back to his proper position as Lisswyn's escort, wipes Eofor's face one last time before deeming him 'mostly acceptable'.

Lothiriel reaches to fiddle with the flowers in her hair again only to be stopped by Lisswyn's gentle touch.

"Leave them. They are there for a reason," she assures her, in her usual gentle, sincere way.

Lisswyn, of all people, would not let Lothiriel be made a fool of on such an important day. So she lets her hand drop and offers her a smile. "If you say so, _muinthel_."

She blinks at the unfamiliar word. Lothiriel winces-for all the work she has put towards learning about Rohan, she had forgotten that most _eorlingas_ know little of the Elvish language so commonly used in Gondor.

"It is Sindarin for 'sister'," she explains.

"Oh," Lisswyn murmurs. "That is-that is very kind, Lothiriel."

"Kind? It is the truth! Or soon will be, if we ever get you to the ceremony."

" _We_ are not the ones lingering inside," comes Eothain's voice-oh, when had they all walked out?

Wincing in apology, she loops her arm through Lisswyn's. They step out into the now bright, midday sunshine arm in arm. Eothain retakes his sister's other arm, shooting Lothiriel a cheeky wink as he does so.

"Ready, _sweostor_?"

Lisswyn smiles. She looks every inch the bride, and with her shoulders steady and head high, every inch the princess.

"Ready," she agrees.

And Lothiriel is very, very sure she is.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Wedding bells are (almost) ringing! I can absolutely promise the next update won't take as long as this one did.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! So March was a really, really crazy month for me, both personally and professionally, so this update got put on the back-burner for a little while. Thank you for all of the sweet reviews-they really do mean so much.

(That being said, messaging me telling me how I "owe" you an update or commenting on my other stories about updating this one: not cool! Much as I love this story, I do have other things going on in my life. I promise! I also promise this story will NOT be abandoned before it ends-but sometimes it's a little slow going!)

Anywho, here we go again: in which Erchirion and Lisswyn finally get married, Eowyn oversteps, and Eomer has high hopes for the future.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**

* * *

Eomer will give Erchirion credit-he doesn't look nervous.

Even with the eyes of the whole of Meduseld on him, he remains even-keel and unflinching. Though, it should be said, it is a much smaller gathering than Yule had been. And certainly smaller than the wedding of a Prince of Gondor to a well-loved lady of the Riddermark _should_ be. But given the obvious mistrust that some of the councilors and not a few of Eomer's riders are eyeing Erchirion with, it is no surprise that it is so sparsely attended in comparison. Still, Eomer cannot fault him for a lack of bravery.

A lack of common sense is another matter, but given that the whole affair has been settled without unnecessary bloodshed or an irreparable diplomatic incident, Eomer supposes that can be forgiven.

In time, anyways.

Eothred, at least, appears at ease with his soon-to-be nephew. He reaches out to smooth Erchirion's collar once more, murmuring something that makes the usually stoic-faced Gondorian smile. It is a marked difference from Eothain, who has been glaring daggers at the prince at every opportunity, and had only been persuaded to stop by a swift smack of Duilin's cane to his ankle before being sent to retrieve the bridal party from his and Wilfled's home.

If that is the largest tussle of the day, Eomer will be pleasantly surprised.

His admittedly dour thoughts are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Eofor, whose reddened face is wedged between the hall's doors.

"She's ready!" He cries.

That, at least, garners a chuckle from all in attendance. Even the Pelargirian contingent, who have been visibly perplexed by the few Rohirric wedding traditions they've witnessed so far.

The eyes of the hall are now fixed on the doors-Eofor has been yanked back out of view, likely for a scolding from his mother-and the air of the room shifts from wary waiting to genuine excitement. The overall mood continues to visibly improve, with audible, happy murmurs beginning as the first members of the bridal party begin their trek into the hall.

Wilfled, Lisswyn's friends, and cousin are welcome sights, smiling prettily as they all but drift up the aisle towards a now fidgeting Erchirion, but they cannot truly lay claim to Eomer's attention.

No, that is currently focused on his sister, who looks as serene and proud as he has ever seen her. The crown of flowers in her hair will likely be replicated for her own wedding just a few months from now. It is a bittersweet sensation-the knowledge that their time together in Edoras is slowly drawing to a close-but he cannot regret that her own personal happiness is so near at hand. Eowyn meets his gaze with a small smile that sharpens quickly from fondness to mischief.

 _Oh, Bema_ , he thinks. What could his _bealuhýdigu sweostor_ possibly have done now?

The answer becomes readily apparent when she flicks her eyes over her shoulder, towards-

Eomer's sharp inhale is plainly audible, garnering a concerned look from Erkenbrand. But who could blame him? Someone-Eowyn, most likely, considering her now smug expression-has woven _Vanablēda_ into Lothiriel's hair. It is a traditional display, usually worn by maidens when they come of age, an indication that they are open to the potential of courting and want Vana's blessings upon them and their future spouse. It is something Lothiriel would have worn were she an _eorlingas_ by birth years ago. That she is wearing it _now_ -

Duilin elbows him sharply. "For Valar's sake, stop gaping at her in plain view of the entire hall! Pretty as she is, it is not _her_ wedding day, Eomer King."

No, it certainly is not. For if it was, Eomer can only hope it would be him waiting to receive her, him able to reach out and take her hands the way Erchirion is taking Lisswyn's, looking at her with such obvious affection and-

Are those...tears?

They are. Erchirion, for all his earlier calm, is openly weeping. Eomer could not say _why_ , but something in him relaxes at the sight. For all of the prince's bold words and ill-guided actions, there is no denying the sincerity nor the depth of emotion on his face now. Even Eothain looks less hostile about the situation, pressing Lisswyn's hand into Erchirion with a smile that is only slightly pinched.

The sage begins the traditional words-in the Common Tongue, to accommodate their Gondorian guests-but Eomer is only giving them a quarter of his full attention. The rest of it is focused on Lothiriel, who is watching the proceedings with an almost dopily happy smile. Eomer's heart gives a ridiculous lurch at the sight.

Duilin's elbow hits his ribs again. "Subtly is _clearly_ not your strong suit, Eomer King," he mutters.

The healer is right, but Eomer cannot bring himself to care. Not when Lothiriel looks so happy, with Vana's blossoms in her hair.

There is a muffled cough to his right and Eomer turns his head slightly to meet Andrethon's look. The Gondorian's eyebrow is arched in a rather formidable expression. Ah. Perhaps he _should_ take more care.

"So you will listen to him but not to me," Duilin grumbles. "Years of my life spent serving the House of Eorl, and this is the respect I get-"

"Now who is being rude?" Eomer asks in a low tone. "Quiet now, Master Healer, lest Wilfled have both of our heads for disturbing the ceremony."

"Wilfled and your _brynhitu cwen_ , more likely than not. Wouldn't that be a sight-"

It is Duilin's turn to receive a sharp admonition for his whispering, in the form of a swift pinch from a frowning Merthwyn. "Continue talking and it will not be their wrath you need fear, but _mine_."

Eomer gulps as Duilin gives a quiet grumble, but neither dare contradict her. They are both embarrassed at being caught, and so it is no hard thing to settle back into respectful silence. If nothing else, it makes it easier to truly focus on the event at hand, instead of staring at Lothiriel like a lovesick fool.

* * *

Lothiriel has to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the sight of Eomer and Duilin united in their mutual mortification. She does not know _what_ had caused them to whisper to each other like a pair of naughty schoolboys, only that it had drawn no small amount of attention, with Merthwyn being close enough at hand to scold them for it.

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat-Wilfled, who offers her an unimpressed expression-has her blushing anew, and forcing her to turn her attention back to the ceremony.

It is, untraditionally, being performed in the Common Tongue, as a courtesy to the Gondorians present. But this does very little to dim its sincerity, its sweetness. She cannot help but give a happy sigh at the sight they make: Lisswyn's hands wrapped securely in Erchirion's as they stare into each other's eyes with overwhelming joy. Her brother's cheeks are still wet with his earlier tears. It is...strange, to see him so open, so readable, but not a bad kind of strange. If Lisswyn can bring him such happiness, Lothiriel does not think anyone should begrudge him showing his emotions, least of all her.

The sage pauses the ceremony to wave someone forward. It's the _mearcung oræfta_ -Cenric, she thinks-who holds two rolls of vellum in his hands. The room is filled with appreciative gasps and murmurs when they're unrolled to display Lisswyn and Erchirion's wedding marks. Not only for their beauty and obvious symbolism-Lisswyn's is a veritable wreath of flowers, with a long-necked swan peeking its head out from between some of the petals, whereas Erchirion's is more masculine in nature, with the now-familiar looping designs of Rohan interspersed with the same flowers-but the _colors_. Erchirion's is nothing shocking, the same deep red of any man who marries a woman of Aldburg, but Lisswyn's...Lisswyn's is a deep, bold, _beautiful_ blue. It will be unlike any wedding mark that has come before it, for even Thengel King's wedding mark had been a dark grey in honor of Morwen Steelsheen's home city and striking eyes.

 _And it may not be the last in that shade_ , she thinks and blushes at the thought. But if all that she hopes for comes true, another _eorlingas_ will bear a wedding mark in that same blue. She dares a quick glance in Eomer's direction-

It's a mistake, but a good one, because he's looking right back at her, hand loosely pressed to his upper left arm.

Lothiriel has to swallow, thickly, against the sudden press of tears. Elbereth, how she loves him! She shifts, just slightly, reaching to brush her own hand against her right arm, and has to to bite her lip at the intense, purposeful way his eyes track the movement.

Mercifully, it is easy enough for anyone watching to mistake her tears as ones of happiness for Lisswyn and Erchirion. Wilfled certainly does so, looking much less stern as she passes her a well-worn handkerchief so Lothiriel can attempt to mop at her eyes in a somewhat dignified fashion. The sage's next words pull her full attention back to the ceremony.

"Lisswyn, daughter of Lissgifu, and Erchirion, son of Imrahil. You have come here to be bound before the eyes of all of Meduseld, of your family and friends. May Vana bless your union, Bema keep safe your home," at this the sage pauses, blinking at the additional blessing Lothiriel and Erchirion had asked to be included, as a nod to their own traditions, "...and Elbereth guide your paths. Now, repeat after me…"

Lothiriel has skimmed the traditional Rohirric wedding vows in books Duilin has had her read. But hearing them spoken aloud, in Lisswyn and Erchirion's reverent voices, with the echo of the surrounding crowd behind them in the more rolling-Rohirric sends a shiver up her spine.

" _You cannot possess me for I belong to myself_

 _But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give_

 _You cannot command me, for I am a free person,"_

Lothiriel blinks in surprise at Erchirion's sudden-but not stuttering-switch to Rohirric. She had not known that he had been practicing! It is a surprise to Lisswyn, too, whose eyes glisten once again with happy tears. The people nearest the dais must hear it as well, for even the most grumpy-looking face softens at her brother's efforts.

" _But I shall serve you in those ways you require_

 _and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand._

 _I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night._

 _And the eyes into which I smile in the morning,"_

She can _feel_ Eomer's burning gaze on her and dares another look. A mistake, again, and both good and bad all at once. Good, because the sheer _heat_ there is plain as day, but bad for that as well, because now is scarcely the time and place for her to think about that _particular_ aspect of marriage. She hastily wipes at her eyes again, feigning tears to hide her surely flushed cheeks.

" _I pledge to you the first bite from my meat,_

 _And the first drink from my cup._

 _I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care,_

 _And tell no strangers our grievances._

 _This is my wedding vow to you._

 _This is a marriage of equals._

Oh, what wonderful vows! A marriage of _equals_. As Naneth and Ada's is, as Elphir and Alycia's. As Faramir and Eowyn's will surely be. The traditional Gondorian vows are not nearly so clear on that front, though certainly no less filled with love in the right circumstance.

There is a slight pause as the sage makes a motion of blessing over both of their heads and then Erchirion's hands are cupping Lisswyn's cheeks. They beam at each other, neither one entirely dry-eyed, and then-

Lothiriel has always wanted happiness for her brothers. Years ago, as a child, she had cringed and grimaced through Elphir and Alycia's wedding, because the thought of Elphir being a _grown-up_ had seemed silly, and the idea of kissing nothing less than _repugnant_. She does not feel either thing now. Only relief and joy, watching them kiss. Wedded at last, beyond all chance of parting, save the parting that all Men must take.

" _Lufubriddas_ ," Wilfled murmurs, mouth quirked in a mischievous expression, "though not the only ones at this wedding, I think."

Lothiriel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a little embarrassed. She should have known Wilfled's sharp eyes would have seen the true reason behind her blush, and if Wilfled has, it is very likely that-

"Oh, no missing that," Eowyn agrees, drifting closer to them as Erchirion and Lisswyn make their triumphant way down the rapidly assembling line of well-wishers, "though I cannot blame Eomer, not with the _Vanablēda_ in your hair-"

Lothiriel blinks at the unfamiliar word. " _Vanablēda_?"

Wilfled's mirth dims at her obvious confusion even as Eowyn nods. "Of course. It is as bold a statement as any."

"Eowyn," Wilfled says, sounding stern in a way that is usually only directed at her children, "did you ask Lothiriel's permission?"

"My permission? But-"

"Why? They are as good as betrothed anyways, and there is no better way to quiet down the council than Lothiriel's open acceptance of Eomer's suit-"

Lothiriel nearly falls off the next step, drawing gasps from both of her friends and a few of the other people around them.

"My lady, are you well?"

"Lothiriel?"

The betrayal she feels is, perhaps, disproportionate to the action. Eowyn had meant well! And she is right, in a way; it is no longer a secret, she and Eomer's courtship, and the _eorlingas_ are a straight-forward people. Seeing proof of her regard for their king is something they will appreciate, respect.

But Eowyn might have _asked_! Or told Lothiriel what they meant before she placed the flowers in her hair!

 _She meant well and you know it,_ one part of her thinks.

But the other half can only remember Eothain's careless remark, the easy way he'd thrown their carefully tended secret to the gossip-mongers and onlookers. That it would have eventually come out is true, but the choice was taken from her. From Eomer. This feels too similar, no matter the intent.

"Lothiriel?" Eowyn asks again. "Are you-"

"I am fine," Lothiriel snaps. Guilt wells up almost immediately after at the look of confusion on Eowyn's face.

 _Now is not the time,_ she thinks, _this day has been hard fought for and I cannot ruin it with my poor temper_.

"I am fine," she says, forcing a hopefully passable smile to her face. "I missed a step; that's all."

Wilfled is still frowning and Eowyn looks ready to poke holes in her obvious lie, but one of the serving girls appears, fretful about the seating arrangements, and whisks her away before she can do so.

"Lothiriel," Wilfled starts to say, voice cautious and soft in a way that's very unlike her, "it was meant kindly-"

"I know," she interrupts, patting her friend's hand with her own. "I know."

* * *

The feast itself is splendid. Merthwyn had outdone herself, fulling holding to the belief that full bellies were happy ones-and knowing how easy it was for _eorlingas_ to overindulge in the mead they're so well-known for.

Erchirion and Lisswyn sit at the center of the central table, Darwyn perched between them, looking like the perfect tableau of domestic bliss.

Lothiriel smiles, despite the sour sensation still lingering in the pit of her stomach. Wilfled had been pulled away by a chattering Eofor, Uncle Andrethon is fielding well-wishes from assorted _eorlingas_ , and Duilin has been bustled off by Merthwyn to the nearest bench to rest his surely-aching knees. The hall is far from quiet, but there must be something in the way she's holding herself that is less than forthcoming, for no one approaches her.

Well, almost no one.

"You know," comes a familiar voice, deep and fond, "I believe you look far too solemn for a wedding feast."

 _Eomer_ , she thinks, with no small feeling of relief. "It is a serious occasion," she answers, keeping her eyes on her brother and his bride even as he steps up beside her, "is it so wrong to look the part?"

"It does when it means you are troubled," is his forthright response. Lothiriel knows she is easy to read, but no one outside her own family has ever been quite so quick about it as Eomer.

For that reason, among a host of others, she cannot keep the truth from him. She turns to face him. Her heart thumps, foolishly, wonderfully, at the sight of him, handsome and steady in his feast attire. The urge to step into the circle of his arms and press her face against his broad chest is stronger than ever; surely this pinched, mean, sour feeling would fade, if he were to hold her?

But they are in a very public place. Eothain's outburst, Andrethon's presence, and the blasted _Vanablēda_ in her hair make such a thing impossible.

"Lothiriel," Eomer murmurs, "what is wrong?"

"The flowers," she blurts, because where lying-albeit badly-to Eowyn and Wilfled an hour prior had felt necessary, the thought of lying to Eomer, of all people, is particularly unsettling, "The _Vanablēda-_ I-I did not put them in my hair myself."

Eomer blinks before looking out across the hall in Eowyn's direction. "Eowyn's doing, I presume?"

"Yes," Lothiriel says. "And I know she meant well, that it was meant to help me, help _us_...but I…"

She bites her lip to stop herself from spewing her irrational anger. It is not wholly justified, she knows, and Eowyn had been trying to do a kindness. She had! And she cannot say something as silly and selfish as _I am angry with your beloved sister for trying to be kind and helpful_ to Eomer.

Eomer's gaze is focused and intense on her face, as if he can will the real reason behind her discomfort her out of her mouth. Suddenly, he has her hand in his, pulling her gently but firmly behind the nearest carved pillar. Lothiriel squeaks, slightly, in surprise and alarm.

"Eomer," she says, warningly, "if my uncle sees-"

"Damned Gondorian courting rules," he grumbles. "But we are still in the hall and it is your brother's wedding day. If that does not afford us a few moments of privacy, I do not know what would."

"It wouldn't in Gondor, to be sure."

Eomer's lips twitch. "My lady, I do not know if you have noticed, but we are not _in_ Gondor."

That startles a laugh out of her. It is a relief to do so, to feel as happy as she had entering the hall in the morning. The gentle brush of Eomer's worn knuckles over her cheek softens her laugh into a small but sincere smile.

"There," he says, "now you look yourself again. Now, _swete_ , can you tell me plainly what so upset you?"

She sighs, pressing her cheek further into his hand for comfort. "I do not mind the flowers. Not really. It is just...they are so _significant_ , and Eowyn did not _ask_ -"

Eomer hums, something like apprehension on his face. "Is it their meaning that is causing you disquiet or that Eowyn put them in your hair without permission?"

Lothiriel's brow furrows. Is it not obvious, that it is the manner in which the _Vanablēda_ were thrust on her that has upset her? How could she mind their meaning? She _is_ open to courting, she _does_ wish happiness and love and peace for the only man she would accept, the man currently cradling her cheek in his hand, with patience and worry in his eyes-

 _Oh, Valar_ , she thinks. Eomer believes it is the _Vanablēda_ themselves that have upset her, not Eowyn's mild trickery!

"Eomer," she says, reaching up to cover his hand with her own, "I would have happily put the _Vanablēda_ in myself. I am not upset at what they say about us to your people. Only that it was done without my knowledge."

He visibly relaxes at that. She cannot help but huff a disbelieving laugh. It is her turn to reach and take his much loved face between _her_ hands, stroking his bearded cheeks. "How can you think otherwise? Eomer, I _love_ you. I just did not like something being declared for me, again, without my say so."

The gentle _ahem_ still manages to startle her into dropping her hands and Eomer sends a poisonous glare over her shoulder to the unfortunate Gamling. Still, he reaches for her hands again, lifting them to his mouth to kiss them defiantly.

"I am sorry she sprung them on you, then," he says, breath gusting warm over the backs of her fingers, "but I cannot say I am sorry to see them, if you do not mind their meaning. I-I do not think I have ever seen anything as beautiful as you were, coming into the hall with them in your hair, smiling bright enough to put the sun to shame."

Lothiriel swallows even as her cheeks pink in a blush. "You told me once you were not very good with words," she murmurs, "I deem you a liar, Eomer, son of Eomund."

He chuckles, softly. "Perhaps I lacked proper inspiration before now. But I will help you take them out, if that will set you at ease."

"No," she says, quickly. "For that will certainly upset Eowyn and make people far too curious about why they went missing. And they are too pretty, too important, to waste."

"Hm," Eomer says. "Then, perhaps…"

Gently, he reaches out and pulls one of the blossoms from her hair. It looks absurdly delicate in his hands, but she cannot think it unsafe there. Not when she knows the measured strength behind those hands so well. He reaches up to tuck it behind his ear and Lothiriel cannot help but laugh, if breathlessly so. It will likely fall out during the first dance of the evening, but the meaning is clear: she is not alone in what she feels. There is no better gesture he could have offered her.

"I so wish," she manages to say, "we were not in the hall."

Eomer quirks a brow at that. "But your uncle-"

"Is watching us, along with others. Which makes the very pressing need to kiss you _incredibly_ inconvenient."

Eomer huffs a soft groan and squeezes her fingers tightly. " _Cwealmbealu_."

"So you keep saying."

"Because it is _true_ , _brynhitu cwen_. But you are right: there are too many eyes on us. I do not want to give Andrethon any cause to prevent us from dancing together."

"A wise choice," she sighs, still a touch regretful. It has been _ages_ since she has been able to kiss him properly. Still, there is nothing for it; their whispered conversation has already gone on long enough and Gamling is looking decidedly exasperated from what she can see of him out of the corner of her eye.

She reaches up to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear when Eomer's hand is suddenly around hers again. He presses a kiss to the delicate skin at her wrist, eyes hot as coals as she gives an audible swallow.

"They will not be watching us all night. If you find that that...need lingers."

The breath feels squeezed from her lungs. "I think it will keep," Lothiriel murmurs.

Eomer smiles, face softening but eyes still hot. "Good."

" _Ahem_ ," coughs Gamling, again, and Eomer releases her hand.

Once again, Lothiriel is glad to be so prone to blushes, if only because no one will ask her its cause.

* * *

Erchirion claims Lothiriel for a dance not long after they've made their way out from behind the shielding base of the pillar. Which is just as well, for Andrethon offers Eomer a stony expression from across the hall-at least until he sees Gamling behind him, clearly having fulfilled the necessary role of _chaperone_.

Eomer does not think he has ever hated a word as much as that one.

Eothain lopes over to him-they are still not truly at ease with one another, not yet, but it has been better this week than the one before. A pattern Eomer expects to continue, especially in the face of Lisswyn's obvious and sincere happiness.

His captain presents him with a mug of ale and a smile, before blue eyes focus on the _Vanablēda_ tucked behind his ear. The smile quickly becomes a smirk. "Very fetching, Eomer King."

"King or not, I can and will still thrash you," Eomer says mildly.

Eothain scoffs. " _Vanablēda_ in his hair and still he threatens violence at a wedding feast! What would your _brynhitu cwen_ have to say about that, eh?"

"That you should not tease him so," comes Lothiriel's voice. Erchirion is at her back, both flushed red from dancing, "and that you have been summoned by your sister for a dance. Everyone knows there is no better guarantee for violence at a wedding feast than refusing a request from the bride."

Eothain grumbles playfully, but sets his mug down on a nearby table and follows the Dol Amrothians back towards Lisswyn. Both pairs of siblings look like matched sets: Erchirion and Lothiriel dark-haired and graceful in the firelight's glow, contrasted to Lisswyn and Eothain's riotously red-hair and much more solid steps. But all look happy. After the mess it took to bring this wedding to be, Eomer supposes they cannot ask for anything more than that.

"There you are," says Eowyn, appearing beside him with her own mug of ale. "I have not seen you since the ceremony!"

"There was something I needed to do. Eowyn, you should know-"

"Aha!" She cries, interrupting him with a triumphant finger directed at his left ear. "I see you charmed Lothiriel out of some of her _Vanablēda_. Excellent, I'd hoped you would."

Eomer sighs. This will be more difficult than he thought. "Eowyn. Do you truly think it was wise not to have told Lothiriel their meaning before putting them in her hair?"

"What do you mean? Surely neither of you _mind_ them?"

Eomer doesn't, not at all, but it was clearly not so easy a thing for Lothiriel. He can guess why-the strict norms surrounding a maiden's conduct in Gondor do not match up with the more open courting routines of the Riddermark. Any maiden of age wearing _Vanablēda_ in the Mark would be normal, accepted. But for a Gondorian princess-no matter how well she has learned their culture, embraced certain aspects of their life-cannot be so open in admitting her affection. Especially in the wake of Erchirion's own scandal, Eothain's careless remarks, and Andrethon's disapproving stare everytime they toed the line of Gondorian propriety.

"Their meaning, no. But Eowyn, consider: Eothain already opened up questions about Lothiriel's reputation. I know you meant well. And perhaps if Erchirion and Lisswyn's courtship had been more traditional, Lothiriel would not be so unsettled-"

"Unsettled? She seemed perfectly fine-"

Eomer arches an eyebrow at that. Lothiriel is, by all accounts, truly terrible at lying. And if he had been able to pick up on her discomfort from across the hall, Eowyn likely had as well.

Eowyn purses her lips. "Perhaps not _perfectly_ fine, but surely she would have told me if she were upset?"

"I think she would rather have drank an entire bottle of _morgendranc_ than said anything to upset anyone today. Including you."

Eowyn's pinched expression only worsens. "Well, she need only have said! I was trying to help, to make it easier for her-for both of you-to gain the support of the council-"

Eomer sighs and wraps an arm around his sister to stop her rant. "I understand that. And she does too, but I think the way our courtship was revealed has made her…"

"Techy?"

" _Sensitive_ ," he corrects, with a stern look of his own. "You have learned enough about Gondorian propriety to understand why."

A little bit of the stiffness goes out of her shoulders. "Stupid Gondorian propriety," she mutters.

"On that," Eomer says, clinking his mug against hers, "we can agree, _sweostor_."

* * *

Dancing lightens both Eowyn and Lothiriel's moods and for that alone, Eomer is grateful. He is also grateful to be sitting, having been forced into a dance by not only both of them, but Wilfled and Rosefled and even a blushing Merthwyn as well. Happy as he is to aid them, he is happier still to have a moment to rest his feet.

And at the sensation of Lothiriel's slender, ever-chilly fingers in his, but no one besides her need know about that.

Eothred, of course, is eyeing them with a worrisome glint in his eye, but is mercifully occupied by a softly snoring Blodwyn in his arms. Darwyn is standing on the bench beside him, studiously watching her mother and her bridegroom dance-to something Gondorian, Eomer thinks, by music alone.

"What's the matter, _mitting_?" Eothain asks her, tugging on a slightly-rumpled red braid.

Her frown is severe, out of place on her otherwise cherubic face. "M'tired."

Lothiriel muffles a soft laugh into her free hand.

"Ah, but I thought you were a grown lass, ready to dance the night away?"

Darwyn's frown only deepens. "Am a grown lass! Just tired, too."

"Darwyn, Eofor is bigger than you and even _he_ is ready for bed," Wilfled wheedles, drawing the little girl's attention to where her older cousin is snoring away with his head in his mother's lap. "Shall we all go to sleep?"

At this, the girl's lip quivers. "No. Want _Modor_ to take me."

The entire table shares a wary look. It is no shocking thing that Darwyn wants her mother, but it is also Lisswyn and Erchirion's wedding night. The only bed they will likely want to concern themselves with is their own.

"Your _modor_ is busy, _min heorte_ ," Eothred says gently. "Cannot Eothain _ēam_ take you, instead?"

"No!" Cries Darwyn, voice rising in pitch and distress. "Want _Modor_ or-"

"There now," Erchirion says, "what seems to be the trouble?"

"Papa," Darwyn says, face crinking in a clearly relieved smile, "m'tired."

"Ah," he says, scooping her up as if the entire table isn't openly gawking at him. "I see that. Well, we'd best see you off to sleep, _gwinig_."

"And _Modor_ too?"

"And _Modor_ too," agrees Lisswyn, drifting up to slip one hand into her husband's and stroke Darwyn's back with the other. Darwyn gives a long yawn, nestling her head against Erchirion's shoulder, which earns him a sweet and chaste kiss from Lisswyn. She meets their amazed stares with only the slightest blush. "I trust you all can keep everyone distracted until we've gotten her settled?"

Eothain offers her a jaunty salute before hefting himself to his feet and offering Lothiriel a hand. "Come now, _glommung cwen_. I haven't much practice in being an _older_ brother, but I have heard tale that dancing is often involved."

Lothiriel smiles, giving Eomer's fingers one final squeeze before standing. "Luckily for you, I am very well-versed in being a little sister."

"Guard your toes," warns Erchirion. "There's nothing Lothiriel likes more than looking like the graceful one, for once."

Eothain, for the first time in weeks, does not frown at Erchirion. Lothiriel does, though Eomer thinks he sees the hint of a smile in her eyes as she loops her arm through Eothain's and they march off towards the middle of the hall. The rowdy music Eothain requests quickly draws more people into the fray, allowing Erchirion, Lisswyn, and Darwyn to slip out unnoticed.

Eothain and Lothiriel make for terrible dance partners, laughing too hard at whatever the other is saying to manage the steps well-likely due in part to Eothain stopping every few moves to clutch at his toes. Much of the _Vanablēda_ linger in the dark mass of her hair, lovely as ever, though Eomer prefers her flushed and smiling expression to the worried one she'd worn earlier. Though he does not love her less for her bouts of seriousness, of worry. He doubts anything could make him love her less.

"It's funny, isn't it," Wilfled murmurs, quiet enough not to disturb Eofor's slumber.

"What is?"

"Loving someone so well. There's nothing that can prepare you for it, no matter what the _léoþwyrhtan_ say." At this, she reaches over to grasp Eomer's hand. "I am glad for you, Eomer. We both are."

"I know," he answers, "and I know Eothain did not mean any harm in opening his exceedingly large mouth."

Wilfled huffs a laugh. "And yet I find that I love him despite his flaws. Another thing no poet will warn you of. But I do not worry for you or Lothiriel on that front. She is sensible enough to know that and I think you will be pliable enough in her little hands to be the same."

Eomer flicks a bit of ale at her and Wilfled laughs, looking for a moment like the girl he and Eothain had met all those years ago in Aldburg, with dirt smudged on her cheek and bits of hay in her hair.

Eofor is woken by their laughter and yawns, sitting up with bleary eyes. " _Modor_? Is there still food?"

"Truly his father's son," Eothred snorts from down the table. He stands, Blodwyn still happily curled in the crook of his arm, and claps a hand to his great-nephew's shoulder. "I'll see them home, then?"

Eofor goes with little resistance, just in time to have his hair ruffled by Eothain as he escorts Lothiriel back to their table. "Come now, _gesinge min_ ," he says, extending his hand to Wilfled, "grant your sore-toed husband a dance."

"I did not step on his toes _once_!" Lothiriel protests.

"If anything, he probably stepped on yours in his theatrics," concurs Wilfled, though she rises to her feet regardless.

Eothain grins, cheeky and unabashed as ever, and maneuvers her into a dip-followed quickly by a kiss-as they go.

Lothiriel settles back in beside him, shaking her head. "What a pair they are," she says.

Eomer can only hum his agreement, nudging his nose against her temple in a gesture of gentle-and chaste, he is no fool-welcome. Still, the smile she offers him in response is too lovely for his peace of mind when combined with the memory of her earlier words about the very _pressing_ need to kiss him.

She must read something of his thoughts in his expression because she sighs and presses her cheek against his shoulder. "I think it will have to keep a little while longer."

She is right, for he spies Erchirion and Lisswyn managing to slip back inside without anyone noticing their short absence. It matters very little, for they've scarcely been back in the hall for five minutes when the customary bedding begins: just a harmless bit of teasing, from the men and women alike, as Lisswyn turns a rosy pink from the safe shelter of an equally flushed Erchirion's arms.

"To Erchirion and Lisswyn!" Cries one of the Gondorians, one of the youngest of the bunch and the least fazed by the Rohirric traditions.

"May you be blessed with many sons-"

"Bit late to wish them that, they may be halfway there already!"

"Pipe _down_ , Freca-"

"Bema above-"

"- and fertile fields-"

"-horses aplenty-"

"-and many years of happiness," finishes Andrethon, clearly wary of letting anyone more intoxicated finish the toasting.

They're heralded from the hall by a flurry of cheers and flowers; one last show of Vana's blessing and the mercifully increased goodwill that has grown throughout the course of the day. Lothiriel gives a happy sort of sniffle as they go, her cheek still pressed to his shoulder. Bema, how easy it would be, to wrap an arm around her-just for comfort! Nothing more!

 _At least not in such plain view of the hall_ , he thinks.

The feast is slowly winding down now, but Lothiriel makes no attempts to move, or to call over any of their remaining friends to talk. Duilin and Andrethon are only a few seats over and perhaps look a little sour at their close proximity, but if it were truly out of line, one of them would say something. Of that Eomer has no doubt.

She makes another little sound-different than before, more neutral than happy-and he blinks in surprise to find Lothiriel asleep against his shoulder. Bema, but she is _still_ beautiful, face lax in sleep. The smattering of freckles across her nose are plainly visible, this close, as is the gentle, pink bow of her upper lip, parted slightly against the fullness of the bottom one. The desire to kiss her is as strong as ever, but it is tempered by the equally strong one that aches to carry her to bed, to tuck her in amongst the furs and watch her slumber on. For hours. For days. For _years_ , if she'd let him, impractical as that would be.

Though he cannot deny the idea of her in his bed is not wholly innocent. Who could blame him? He is only a man, and a man in love at that, and she has never shown any resistance to his kisses, his obvious interest. Certainly not now, not with so much at stake, but one day, when it is _their_ wedding feast drawing to a close, when damned Gondorian propriety no longer matters and no one will be able to say a word about the King and Queen of the Riddermark sneaking off for privacy-

"Sire. Eomer King."

Eomer blinks and can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks at being so obvious.

"Yes?" He says, forcing himself to turn back to meet Gamling's long-suffering expression.

"You should wake her," his longtime friend says. "No doubt her uncle will have something to say about this-"

"Yes," comes Andrethon's voice, drawing a muffled groan out of Eomer, "he does. And it is this: let her sleep."

Gamling blinks. Eomer blinks. Duilin, who is doing a terrible job of pretending not to eavesdrop, actually drops his cane with a clatter. Somehow, said clatter does not wake Lothiriel.

"My lord?" Asks Gamling, in obvious confusion.

"For now, anyways. I expect Lady Eowyn will be along to collect her shortly. And besides, I was young and in love once. There is hardly anything scandalous about resting your head on the shoulder of someone you love, in such plain sight."

"Pelargir truly is a strange place, to grow such a man," grumbles Duilin. "I think I would have liked to live there."

Andrethon grins, clapping the older man on the shoulder. "And we would be glad to have you, my friend."

Reassured that he is not at risk by being skewered-either verbally or physically-by an irate Gondorian lord, Eomer leans his cheek against the crown of Lothiriel's head. Her hair is as sweet smelling as ever, made sweeter still by the lingering _Vanablēda_.

 _One day_ , he thinks, daring to nudge his nose against her temple again, and earning a sleepy mumble _, one day_.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** They're finally hitched, folks!

So this chapter took extensive re-writes (hence why it took so long) because I just could NOT get the tone right. I think I finally settled on what I wanted on the third re-do, and I hope this finished version does Erchirion and Lisswyn justice. (One day, I'll probably do something from one of their points of view, but it's HARD to show how in love they are from outsider sources, y'all! Especially when said sources are ALSO gross idiots in love and a little hyper-focused).

The wedding vows are supposedly based on "traditional Irish vows" though my resident expert on all things Ireland (thanks a million, Niamh) says they sound more like a translated/Hollywood-a-fied version. They do, however, come verbatim from Morning Through the Shadows by Marla Fair (available on Amazon and actually in my cart ATM).

Now, on the vanableda: honestly, both Lothiriel and Eowyn are both in the right and the wrong. Yes, Eowyn should have asked permission or told Lothiriel what they meant. But Lothiriel is, as Eowyn puts it, being a bit "tetchy" in direct result to Eothain's earlier outburst throwing her and Eomer's carefully tended courtship out in the open. They'll be fine, folks, but this will be revisited in the next chapter.

On Darwyn calling Erchirion "Papa": I pulled from the movies a bit in this one. There's definitely at least one Rohirric girl who refers to her father as "papa" and given that asking an almost three-year-old to pick up Sindarin enough to call Erchirion "Ada" or "Adar" seemed a little far-fetched, this seemed a suitable alternative. Also, neither Erchirion nor Lisswyn wanted her to call him "Faeder", as that's what she would have called Widfara.

As for our favorite idiots in love: it was so nice to write them together again, y'all. I really do love these two dorks and I've missed sharing them with you.

 **Vocab:**  
 _bealuhýdigu_ : meddling  
 _Vanablēda_ : blēda means blossoms, Vana is obviously the Queen of Flowers per Rohirric lore and religion  
 _mearcung oræfta_ : ceremonial tattoo artist, essentially (and yes, this is the same guy that did Eomer's king's marks like 8 million chapters ago)  
 _Lufubriddas_ : lovebirds  
 _min heorte_ : my heart  
 _ēam_ : uncle, specifically maternal uncle  
 _léoþwyrhtan_ : poets


End file.
